War Changes a Person
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Steve's journey, TFA - TWS, in detail. The stuff we DIDN'T see in the movies. - - - Essentially deleted or extended scenes that I've created to fill in blanks and flesh out details. Character development aplenty. (Not slash)
1. Chapter 1

Steve says nothing to Bucky the night that he's finally accepted. He takes his form, cleanly stamped with a 1A in the bottom right corner, clutches it tight to his chest, and scurries home. He doesn't want to see the rest of the expo. Doesn't care what else it might have to offer.

The paper burns into his skin like a shameful secret as the adrenaline of what's just happened begins to wear off.  
He's done it. He's done it. He's-  
He's got no idea what he's going to tell his best friend.

Bucky has never wanted him to enlist. His friend gets that quietly pained look in his eyes whenever Steve stubbornly tries to bluster his way into the 107th on sheer pig-headedness alone, time after time.  
Bucky worries about him. He has the decency not to say it, but he doesn't think Steve would make it as a soldier. Over the long, long time the two of them have been friends, they've perfected the art of dancing around each other. Of saying one thing and meaning another. They read each other loud and clear regardless.  
Bucky is keenly aware of, but politely doesn't mention any of Steve's laundry-list of conditions. The weak heart, the treacherous lungs, the twisted spine, the bad eye-sight, the partial deafness. The asthma, the bad knees, the migraines, constant fevers... Bucky knows about and helps him through each and every ailment - is painfully careful never to talk down to him when he does. Bucky is probably the only person Steve's ever known that doesn't make him feel like a weakling.  
Bucky acknowledges Steve's bad health primarily by simply working around it. By standing on Steve's right when he talks, never on the left. By tossing a friendly arm around his friend's shoulders and all but carrying him when Steve's flat feet are aching and sore. By describing the world around them in positions, in dark or light, never in the colors that they both know are mysteries to Steve. He teases and cajoles Steve through life-threatening flu at least once a year. Always has a smile and a 'wake up jackass' ready to push Steve's stubborn buttons and propel him through the worst of it.

And now Steve has a choice. He can tell Bucky everything, whenever his best-friend/roommate happens to stagger in from yet another lopsided, failed attempt at a double-date. He can try to explain to his exhausted, half-drunk friend that he's signed his life away the night before Bucky leaves New York... _not only_ to become a soldier, but for the _chance_ at becoming a glorified lab-animal. He can just see Bucky's reaction to that…  
He can deal with the inevitable argument that will eat precious hours of what little time they have left. Go to bed pissed off at each other and wake up awkwardly not speaking. He can send his best friend off to report, on no sleep, with a hang-over and guilt complex, knowing it'll be less than a week before Bucky's out dodging Nazi bullets.  
Steve doesn't want that. Can't live with doing that to his best friend.

Or… he can do the unthinkable. He can lie through his teeth to Bucky instead.

Steve has lied before. He lied on the enlistment forms countless times. It's not that he doesn't know how, or that he won't do it when it's for a good cause. Nothing like that. Contrary to what people might claim, he's certainly not a saint... It's just… this is _Bucky._ He's never lied to Bucky about anything more serious than '_I'm fine' _or '_I didn't want to go anyways'_. This… this is something else entirely. He doesn't think he can do it.

In the end, he takes the coward's way out, hiding the form in the back of an old sketch-pad that's wedged under his cracked old bed-frame. He glances guilty at Bucky's bed across the room, still empty. Hating himself, he turns out the light, crawls under his sheets, and squeezes his eyes closed, willing himself to sleep.  
He's curled up on his side, too excited and nauseous with nerves to do more than press his eyes shut and hold as still as he can, when Bucky stumbles in a few hours later. There's a fair bit of crashing around as Bucky fuzzily meanders out of his clothes and stumbles to bed, tripping over several things as he crosses the room.

"Should'a stayed out wi' us, Rogers…" He mutters, though Steve can't quite tell if it's aimed at him or the wall. "Girls were dy-dyn'mite dancers." There's a long labored pause, like he's waiting for a reply. Steve tries to breathe in and out, slow and even - more to stave off an anxiety-induced asthma attack than anything else- and waits it out.  
After a few moments, there's the faint rustling of Sergeant James Barnes clumsily piling himself into bed, swiftly followed by a quiet thunk and muffled swearing when he bumps his skull into the wall. The soft sigh that follows sounds much too sober for Steve's liking, and he bunches himself up a little smaller, as if that will help keep the unwanted questions out.

"Goddamn... I'm gonna miss you, kid." Bucky says quietly into the dark. There's another sigh that breaks into a mirthless laugh, as he hears Bucky wriggling down the mattress and rolling onto his side with a heavy creak. "Hate this stupid goddamn war already, and I ain't even in it yet…"  
Bucky is snoring within a few minutes.

Steve barely sleeps all night.

* * *

_**A/N: Stay tuned. There's much, much more on the way.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky barely even looks hungover when he drops himself heavily down on Steve's thin creaky mattress, a few hours before the sun rises. He claps a hand warmly on his friend's boney shoulder and gives him a vigorous shake.

"Rise and shine, Steve-o. C'mon you jerk! Ain't gonna get up and see me off after you disappeared on me last night? Some friend!" He's grinning, the teasing asshole. Steve groans into his elbow.

" 'Course I am!" Steve grumps indignantly, dragging one knobby hand over his eyes and massaging at the ache behind them. "Give a guy a second, can't ya?"  
He sits up stiffly and yawns, feeling every muscle and joint creak mutinously when he moves. Apparently he'd stayed wadded up into a little ball even after he fell asleep. _Lovely_.

Bucky's already back in his uniform, Steve realizes with a little jolt. Looking as freshly pressed and put together as he ever does. It makes something in the pit of Steve's stomach turn to lead. He'd almost forgotten, in a haze of sleep, just where his best friend was going today.

"Hurry up and get dressed already, Rogers. I gotta report in a couple'a hours and since _somebody_ ran off last night an' left me with two girls to entertain, I figured we could celebrate a little this morning instead. Do the whole big send-off crap, y'know?"

"Yeah… that … that sounds great, Buck. I'll make some pancakes. I think we got eggs left."

"You go promisin' a guy pancakes, we sure as hell better!"

* * *

Bucky brews some coffee, strong and black and bitter as the pits of hell - the way they always drink it- while Steve slowly mixes up the batter and starts a pan heating on the stove.

He thinks with a mixture of relief and misery, that they'll spend the last of their time carefully dancing around each other, speaking without speaking, until Bucky turns to him, chipped mug cupped between his fingers, and asks the question Steve's been dreading.

"So how'd it go?"

"How'd what go?" Steve busies himself ladling out a little puddle of batter and watching it hiss and bubble on contact with the dented steel.

"Your big visit with Uncle Sam, dummy, what else? You obviously didn't get arrested… or else you're just doin' a shitty job of being on lam."

"I'm not on the lam, Bucky." Steve replies mildly, carefully flipping the pancake. He can't keep staring into the pan or Bucky's going to know something's wrong, so he makes himself turn around, looking indignant.  
"I came straight back here and went to bed. How do you _think_ it went?" It's not technically a lie, but he feels like a rat for it anyway. He turns back to the pancake before it can burn and scrapes it out and onto a plate without turning around.

"Shit… Look, I'm sorry kid…" There's a short pause. The air feels suddenly heavy between them. "I mean, I ain't sorry you'll be here in one piece when I get back…" Bucky sounds so much less sure of himself than he did the day before, that Steve can't help but turn around and face him. Haloed in the harsh yellow light of the single bulb in the ceiling, his friend looks truly tired for the first time. Not a-day-of-hard-work tired, but down to the bone, to the _soul_ weariness… Steve tells himself it's just the light that's doing it.  
"I know you wanted to go too." Bucky says quietly, staring down into his coffee before visibly shaking himself and taking a sip. "Just… Just be careful while I'm gone, ok Steve?" He raises his eyes and locks onto Steve's in a piercing, serious way that he's never really had before. "Stay safe. That's all I'm askin' ya…" The tired look is more pronounced with the way Bucky's head is tilted toward him, something unreadable in his expression. It's gone again when he moves.  
Just a trick of light.

"I'll… I'll try."  
Steve turns back to the pancakes, one already going stone cold, forgotten, on the plate beside him. They both know Steve couldn't be careful if someone was holding his hands and showing him how, but he wants to give Bucky something, some comfort to hold onto. This is a lie he _can_ tell. "And you'll be back before you know it. Like you were never gone." He adds.

"Sure as fuck hope so." Bucky mutters, half teasing, half serious. "Now gimme that hot-cake before it freezes solid, I'm starvin'."


	3. Chapter 3

Steve stands, waving, as the train pulls away in the pre-dawn grey, straining to see his friend's face for as long as he can. He waves until his arm is tired and he can feel the morning chill all the way through his coat, layered under Bucky's. The two fit well inside one another, and since Bucky won't be wearing it for a while, he's insisted Steve take it in the meantime.

When the train is completely out of sight, Steve goes home and packs his own bag, fishing the form out from under the bed and straightening out a crumpled corner. He tucks it under his arm and locks the door behind him; turning his steps toward the Brooklyn recruitment center - small battered suitcase in his hand.

He is to report at first light.

* * *

"Ah, Steven, wonderful. Right on time. I hope you had a pleasant evening?" Dr. Erskine is gratingly cheerful, waiting beside the front desk and gesturing Steve after him down a winding hallway to a small dark and dingy office.

"Sure, it was…uh…. I was too excited to sleep."

Erskine beams, eyes crinkling merrily as he unlocks the door and ushers Steve in, switching on the lights.

"Excellent, excellent, I am delighted to hear it. Now, we have just a few administrative details that must be dealt with and then you'll be off to basic training with the other recruits. You don't get train-sick, I hope?"

"Uh… well…" Steve hasn't ever really been on a train, but given his flighty stomach and keyed up nerves-

"You will be fine, I am sure of it." The doctor answers for him, jovially dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand.  
"Now, these are your identification tags." A pair of gleaming metal tags on a length of chain are placed firmly in his hand. "We filled them in from your enlistment forms. The **-**_**ahem-**_ _correct_ version." He glances knowingly at Steve who chooses not to meet his eye. He has enough to feel guilty about his morning.  
"Mr. Barnes is still your next of kin, correct?"

Steve nods numbly, still not sure he trusts that this is really happening.  
"Sergeant."

"I'm sorry?" Despite the thick German accent, he can hear the confusion in the doctor's voice.

"Sergeant Barnes." Steve supplies, barely hearing himself. "He's a sergeant in the 107th."

"I see." Erskine regards him searchingly for a moment, then examines the forms. "You listed him only as ...a Mr. James Buchanan Barnes, I suspect to avoid sharing the blame with your friend should your deception be noted?" Steve doesn't answer. "But that should be no trouble." Erskine flicks the folder closed with a decisive snap, laying it on a desk to his right. "I do not expect you to be killed in action by basic training, so there is more than enough time to correct the listing before it becomes a problem.  
Now-" A bundle of olive drab and shiny black boots follow the dog-tags into his arms. "please change your clothes and we can be on our way. We leave in roughly 10 minutes, Private Rogers."

"Yes sir."  
Somehow Steve always imagined this moment coming with a bit more thrill, a bit more excitement. A sense of adventure.  
… Instead he just feels cold, tired, and slightly sick. _Situation normal._

He tucks his old, shabby clothes into his suit-case, empty but for a couple of books, his drawing pencils (much too precious to be left behind) and, most important of all: his two most prized sketches. One of his mother before she really began to succumb to her illness, still glowing with warmth and life. The other of Bucky, grinning in that stupidly charming way that always promises he's up to no good.  
There had been no point bringing any of his other ragged and worn-out things. The army will provide all of that now.

He straightens his tie, tries for a jaunty angle with his cap, and snaps the latches of his case closed. Then he steps around the changing curtain and out into his new life.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Three chapter update today. Enjoy :D**_

* * *

Agent Carter is a force of nature. She's one part refinement, one part terrifying drill sergeant, and one part brilliance, all wrapped up in one beautiful, intimidating woman.  
There is a practiced danger to her movements, an inborn authority and a presence that brooks absolutely no insubordination. Agent Carter resolutely _demands_ respect, just by walking into a room.  
Steve likes her immediately.

Of course, it seems only men with half a brain pick up on Carter's presence. When one of the recruits starts catcalling and back-talking her, Steve is just considering telling the man where _exactly_ he can put his crass remarks when Agent Carter puts a stop to the situation decisively herself, with a mean right hook. In one shot, she drops Pvt. Hodge (the smart-mouthed jackass) straight into the dirt. Steve almost cheers, though he manages to keep himself to just an entertained smirk.

Hodge must notice, because he spends the next six weeks making Steve's life a living hell. Steve vaguely considers asking him if he's related to Billy Williams or Stan Hargrove back in Brooklyn. They all like the same stupid insults and resort to the same asshole tactics for their bullying.  
He doesn't bother.

None of the others want him here, he can see that. The colonel clearly doesn't. Hodge especially seems to take his presence as an insult. Steve thinks, as politely as he can, that they are all free to go straight to hell if they think he's going to let that stop him after coming this far.

He even refrains from laughing at the stunned faces of his company when he pulls the pin out of the base of the camp's flag-pole and strolls over to collect the camp flag and his free ride back to the barracks.  
Steve's a gentleman like that.


	5. Chapter 5

The world whites out around him at the call of "_Grenade!_"

There, just a few feet in front of him, the egg-shaped explosive rolls to a halt and Steve is running straight toward it before he realizes he's moved. He dives on top of it, curling into a ball and frantically waving Agent Carter away. She jogs to a halt, staring at him, but keeps her distance. Steve's glad for it.  
He's expendable, she's not.

He braces himself, gritting his teeth, and wondering what it feels like to have your insides blown through your outsides.

The explosion never comes.

Steve opens his eyes to stunned silence and the realization that there _is_ no explosion coming. He slowly sits up, coiled in the dirt, and looks around. Carter's face is wondering; she's smiling just the faintest bit at the edges of her lips. The other recruits look nervous and rattled.

"...Is this a test?" He ventures, confused.  
It has to be. Why the hell else would someone throw a dummy grenade at a batch of fresh recruits in the middle of exercises? For some kind of sick kicks?

He glances at Colonel Phillips, who looks surprised and grudgingly impressed. The colonel walks away after muttering something to Dr. Erskine. Erskine turns to him and grins.  
That's all the answer he gets.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear Bucky,_

Steve has written and re-written the letter a hundred times. He won't send it. He can't. Even if he could find the right words, the army would never let him reveal what they're doing here. He tries anyway. Tells himself that if he can just get the words out, at least that's something. He starts the 12th try in an hour:

_I know I promised I'd try to be careful, but_

He crumples up the paper and starts over.

_I have a chance to do something great for my country. I'm finally good for something._

That's wrong too. He sighs and rubs his forehead. _Forget it._ He's not going to send this thing anyways.

_Dear Bucky,_

_I know you told me to be careful and stay safe while you were gone. I said I'd try, and I will. But I have to do this. They say I might be what brings guys like you home safe, if this works. I'll do my best to be there waiting when you get back, but until this war is over, I'm going to do whatever I can to make it shorter_

He hesitates, pen leaving a heavy black blot before he remembers to lift it from the page.

_I hope you're being careful out there, wherever you are. They won't tell me. You're all the family I got left, Buck. I don't want to lose anybody else. So you get your stupid jerk ass back here in one piece when this is over, you hear me? I will come over there and punch Hitler right in the face if I have to, so help me._

_And I wanted you to know, in case something goes wrong and I don't make it… _

His hand has started to shake, though he knows he'll burn this page like he's burned all the others. Bucky won't ever see it. He scrubs a hand up and down his face, willing the shaking to subside, until he can write again.

_I want you to know you're more than my best friend. You're my brother, you big lunkhead. You're the most important thing in the world to me, Buck. You wanted me to be there when you got back… well I want you to be there too. Just take care, is all. _

Steve swallows down the worst of the guilt. He puts his pen back to the page one last time.

_I miss you, Buck. I'll see you on the other side, when this is over. Be careful and come back safe, buddy._

_-Steve R._

He stares at the page for a long time, now that he's written it all down. Then he starts on another letter. This one is just a drawing he did the other week - their fire-escape, drawn from memory- and a few generic lines.

_Dear Bucky,_

_I hope you're doing ok. I'm alright here. I thought you'd like to see a doodle I did. Be careful out there._

_-Steve R._

It's short, it's ugly, and it's not enough. But it's something and it's the best he can offer right now.

He pushes the page into an envelope with the torn out sketch page behind it, and seals it before he can think better of his decision. Drops it in the mail-sack by the barracks door, then feeds his real letter into the lamp he's been writing by.

As the words go up in smoke, he can't help but feel like his old life and the world as he knows it is going too.

Not for the first time, he doesn't sleep a wink all night.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Another three chapter update today. These chapters just keep happening in related chunks, so for now, we'll upload them as such :D**_

* * *

When Erskine had told him that the procedure might be painful, he had apparently neglected to add 'very very very' to the description.

Steve is not a stranger to pain. He's been weak and sickly all his life. He's been pushed around and beaten to a pulp for the crime of being small, and for daring to open his mouth to the wrong people. He's had every bone in his body broken at some point, and his back has been a mess since the day he was born.

All of that feels like lying on a nice soft feather pillow compared to sheer agony that's burning through him now, as he can literally _feel_ his blood dissolving, bones shifting beneath his skin, muscle turning to jelly and stretching, straining beyond where it really, by all rights, ought to have torn right in half; but it just keeps stretching out like putty, roping back in on itself now and then.

He tries to keep silent, tries to hold his tongue, but he just can't do it. When he feels his eyeballs begin to stretch and melt into new shapes, it's too much. He screams, and can't stop screaming. His skin is on fire, his brain is trying to scratch its way out of his skull. He's pretty sure this is what dying feels like. He's dying. He's gotta be.

"Shut it down!"

The words cut through the haze of pain, rattling around his skull. They're going to stop the experiment. He's failed.  
Something in him rebels at that. Like _HELL _he's going to fail at this. People are depending on him. This is important.  
He came here prepared to lay down his life, and if that's what it takes-

"_No!"_ He yelps around the pain, hearing the frenzy of activity grind to a halt as quickly as it began. "Don't! -I can do this!"  
He's not going to let some stupid machine or vita-whatsis whip him. Half of Brooklyn tried and failed. His own body has tried and failed. He'll go down fighting if he's going down at all.

Someone takes him at his word. The pain gets impossibly worse, but they don't shut the machine down.  
He can't scream anymore. His throat won't cooperate. He didn't know it could possibly _get_ worse than his breaking point, but clearly fate has something out for Steven G. Rogers. He's close to blacking out when the power surges, slamming energy through him like a punch in the ribs. He's all but crackling with electricity as his body slowly re-solidifies again.

And then it's over…

Everything is quiet for a few moments as he catches his breath, eyes closed and head thrown back. He can feel himself dripping with sweat, and he's sure he looks like a drowned rat. He always does when he's worked up a massive sweat.  
He's going to look like shit when he steps out of here, but he's just too damned tired to care right now. He survived.  
Whatever they did, he survived, and he's damned proud of that.

When they help him down from the chamber, when he opens his eyes... the first thing he sees is Agent Carter.  
...Peggy.

She was beautiful in shades of grey, and yellow, and blue, but colors he never realized existed grace her now. Soft warm shades that scream of heat and excitement gleam on her glossy lips. A gentler dusting flits over her glowing cheeks. A new, darker color adds a whole new dimension to intelligent eyes. It takes his breath away and he can't stop staring at her for a long moment.

Her hand ghosts over his chest before she seems to catch herself, looking embarrassed, and offers him his shirt instead.  
"How do you feel?" She asks, sounding caught off guard.

"Taller." Is all he can manage.

Because fate really does have something out for him, he gets all of two minutes to take the changes in, before all hell breaks loose.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve is always losing people. Always.

His father died before he was born, somewhere in a trench in rural Austria. His mother died when he was 18, consumed by the TB she'd devoted her brief life to fighting. He never met any of his grandparents - all dead before he was born- and he's never had many friends.  
Honestly he'd been shocked to have Bucky as long as he did before the war took that away from him too.

_I don't want to lose anybody else.  
_That's what he'd written on the burned page. He'd put those words out into the world and the world had laughed in his face, just like it always did.

Dr. Erskine is dead, hand falling limply to his side as Steve kneels beside the body, staring down in disbelief. The lab is in an uproar, and the gunman is on the loose.  
He raises his eyes, and the trembling that has rippled up his spine vanishes as if it had never been. It has taken him less a minute for shock and horror to melt into something colder, meaner.

_I don't want to kill anybody.  
_That's what he'd said. Well that had been the old Steve. The new one is sprinting up the stairs, barefoot and blind to every good, solid, sensible reason why what he's doing is completely insane.  
All he knows is that this man has killed someone who wanted to make the world a better place. He's killed the sweet old lady upstairs, and he's currently trying to kill Peggy. That's more than enough reason to see just how much of a mess this brand-new body of his can make.

* * *

It's not until the madness of the chase has died down, the assassin dead at his feet from his own cyanide capsule, that it really hits home for Steve. All of it.

He's just sprinted across half of New York, barefoot, ridden on the top of a cab, dived under water, swum at least a few hundred feet, ripped open something out of one of those terrible science-fiction novels Bucky loves so much... and he's barely even out of breath.  
He glances at the froth-laced corpse on the ground, dripping sea water from limp, rapidly cooling fingertips. _The first of many_. That's what the man had said.  
What the hell is a hydra?  
He vaguely remembers the word coming up in a history class once, but other that, he's got nothing. Is he supposed to be fighting sea monsters now?

He thought he was signing up to fight a war. This is on an entire other level.  
What the _hell_ has he gotten himself into?


	9. Chapter 9

The funeral is sparse and spare. There isn't much time to plan, nor is there much time to mourn.  
No family comes to see the remains. Steve hears someone whisper that there was once a wife and a couple of children, but they were killed years ago in a prisoner of war camp. Nobody knows if there are any other relatives. The doctor's city has already long been razed by the war. Anyone left would be scattered by now. Steve feels helplessly angry at it all. It seems so incredibly unfair, but then life often is.

Howard Stark provides the capital for a nice casket, a headstone, and some flowers for the deceased - but there's little more that can be done to ease the passing. Cursory military honors, a half-hearted procession, and a swift red-eyed burial in a small, quiet cemetery in Queens see Erskine to his final resting place.

Steve is quietly furious throughout, his objections that the late doctor deserved better than this having been loudly and decisively overruled by disinterested Army brass. He's been informed that he'll face court-martial if he doesn't shut up and let it go, which in any other circumstances would only wind him up the more. It's only the belief that he's doing this for a reason, that the war effort _needs_ him, that keeps Steve's mouth shut. Grudgingly.

Dr. Erskine had certainly been well liked by his peers, and Agent Carter is clearly no better pleased at his treatment than anyone else, but she can do nothing more about it than Steve can.

There is still a war going on, and the powers that be are rattled by both the brazenness of the assault and the level of technology the enemy possesses. They don't have much concern to spare over one turncoat German, no matter how much he may have done for the war effort. Steve positively burns with the unfairness of it all.

* * *

They take sample after sample of his blood a few hours after the last shovelfull of earth is laid, hoping to reproduce the program. Silent and still reeling, Steve cooperates.

Peggy tells him that if the program had to work only once, Erskine would've been glad it was on him.  
Steve doesn't answer. He just feels hollow inside.  
The feeling never quite goes away.


	10. Chapter 10

He gets his first letter from Bucky a few days after the funeral. It's much longer than his own had been, and while Bucky doesn't tell him much, there's a lot written between the lines.

_Steve,_

_Glad to hear from you kid. I was starting to think you really got your ass-kicked good or something. Had been a while with nothing. You're staying out of trouble like you promised me, right? (I know, I'm dreaming on that one, but I can hope.)  
__Did the rent come through ok? It should all be automatic with the bank where my service pay goes. If there's a problem, tell Mr. Walters to go bug the Recruitment guys, they'll straighten it out. There should be some extra now that I'm actually in the field, so you can turn the heat up as high as you need to when it really gets cold. Don't you dare get sick while I'm gone, you hear me jerkass? You got no excuse this time!_

_Thanks for the drawing. It's nice to have a little piece of home to look at. Not much out here but dirt, more dirt, and some trees. It's weird and loud in the middle of nowhere. Wouldn't think it, but bugs make a hell of a lot of noise at night._

_I can't really talk about where we are or what we're doing (Army shit, leave it at that) but so far so good. Everybody's still safe and sound, even if the food is complete dog shit. Won't die from shitty cheap bacon, much as you might wanna._

_Anyway, keep writing, pal. It's good to hear from you. Take care and PLEASE don't pick any fights while I'm gone. I got enough pains in the ass to babysit here, I don't wanna have to start writing the neighbors to go babysit you too.  
__Be careful Steve, alright?  
_

_I'll be back as soon as I can._

_-Bucky_

Steve reads it hungrily three or four times before he can put the letter down. After everything that's happened, just knowing that Bucky's safe, even if he's halfway across the world, makes him feel just a little bit better.

This is why he did it. All of it. This is why he's still here.  
He's going to get Bucky and all the other GIs home safe, one way or another, if it's the last thing he does.

* * *

_Dear Bucky,_

_I'm so glad you guys are ok! I had a little trouble with some jerks at first, but it got straightened out. I'm fine, promise. Mr. Walters hasn't said anything to me about the rent, so I think it must be ok._

He's careful not to lie in answer to any of Bucky's questions, but not to let on that he's currently sitting on a train that's headed to Dallas either. He grimaces as he writes, glancing at the suitcase beside him. In it are folded the godawful bright-blue tights he'll be expected to wear while he dances around like a trained monkey, trying to raise money for war bonds.  
He sighs and goes back to his letter.

He'd wanted to serve. Just… maybe not quite like this...

_It's actually pretty warm still, so I haven't needed to worry about the heat. Thanks for thinking about it though._

Leave it to Bucky to worry about his health from a warzone on the other side of the earth. The guy has 'big brother' all but stamped on his face. Always worrying about everybody else.

_I'm glad you liked the drawing so much. I'm including another one to go with it. _

He almost adds that he knows now what cicadas sound like, and yes they really _are _noisy... but catches himself before he makes that mistake. There are no cicadas in Brooklyn.  
He shuffles through his sketchbook and finds a doodle of the Brooklyn Bridge instead, slipping it into the envelope so he won't forget.

_I won't ask too many questions, so I don't get you in trouble. Just keep being safe, ok? I'll see if I can get some better food to send you, if the bacon's really THAT bad._

_I'm being as careful as I can, Buck. You know me. Don't need anybody to babysit me, I'll be just fine. You just look out for yourself ok? I'm holding you to that 'coming back soon' thing._

_Let me know how you are when you write back, ok? I wanna know you're safe out there._

_Take care._

_-Steve R._

He sends the letter that night, just before he has to get into his costume and head out onto the stage.

Bucky, he finds out later, never receives it.


	11. Chapter 11

He's almost starting to get the hang of this whole celebrity appearance nonsense, when a young woman with blonde curls and a huge lipsticked smile comes through the photo line and tosses her arms around his neck. He goes rigid, startled, but she doesn't appear to notice - just bounces on her toes and twines her fingers together behind his head, like they're high-school sweethearts. Steve is completely at a loss.

He should do something… he can't just _stand_ here like an idiot. He settles for awkwardly patting her back, trying his best to smile despite being extremely uncomfortable with the random touching. She leans away, still beaming.  
"Steve, don't you remember me?"

"Uh…"

He has no idea what to say. Should he remember her? Have they met? She bats heavily made-up eyelashes expectantly. He swallows hard. "I'm not-"

"The Stark Expo!" She says brightly, grinning up at him as if he's being extremely charming and suave instead of helplessly awkward and adrift.  
She stands her ground, refusing to be discretely hustled along by the line attendants. "Your friend set us up. You left early." She adds, mock reproachfully. As if she missed him. He tries not to frown at her.

"Oh… um... Right."

He should probably say something flattering. He's supposed to make nice with everyone who comes to see him… But what do you say to girls that are actually paying attention? He never did really learn how to talk to women before the serum, and there hasn't been much time to learn since.  
And what the hell had her name been? He only remembers her as yet another girl that hadn't been interested in whether he lived or died. He didn't committed her name to memory.  
He settles for generic pleasantries instead.

"It's... uh… good to see you again."

She gives a squeak that he assumes is pleased and turns around to address a segment of the crowd. "I told you it was true!"  
The small flock of girls she's talking to squeal and flutter when he glances their way. The attendants take their chance and quickly herd his admirer out of the way for an impatient woman with a colicky baby that she wants kissed.  
The girl… Susan? Denise…? …. Catherine? waves as she goes, calling out that she'll write to him. Steve sincerely hopes she doesn't.

Trying to pretend he's at ease, he gets back to the business of shaking hands and feigning charisma.


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: Whoopsy, the formatting got goofed up somehow. Fixing the pages now. Shouldn't affect the reading experience too much.**_

* * *

Bucky looks thoroughly worked over. He lurches drunkenly from side to side as Steve helps him to sit, head dipping then jolting up. His eyes are sunken and distant and he looks like he has no idea where he is or what's going on.  
Even wasted beyond belief, Bucky's never looked this bad. Steve's heart drops into his stomach.

"I thought you were dead…" he breathes, gingerly touching Bucky's filthy bruised cheek, just to reassure himself that this is real. Bucky's really here, and beat-up as he is, he's alive.  
Steve's going to get his friend out of here, and everything is going to be alright again. He lets himself believe it. Lets himself stare at Bucky's battered face and tattered clothes, taking him in. Noticing the alarmingly starved, sick look of him.  
Bucky blinks dazedly back, glancing down to Steve's heavily booted feet then up to his helmeted head.

"... I thought you were smaller…" Bucky murmurs, confused. His pupils are blown wide, leaving his eyes nearly solid black with faint pale-blue rims. Bucky looks high out of his mind.

Steve hesitates. There's too much to explain, no time to do it in, and Bucky looks like he's in absolutely no shape to retain it anyway. After a quick glance at the room and a moment to memorize an ominously marked map, he plants a shoulder under his friend's arm and hoists him up onto his feet instead. They need to leave. Now.  
The rest can wait.

"What happened to you?" Bucky slurs, feet dragging pitifully as Steve hauls him towards the door. Bucky's ineffectively shuffling with his legs, like he's trying to get them beneath him, but he just can't quite do it.  
Steve tugs his friend's arm higher over his shoulders and takes the rest of Bucky's weight into his side.

"I joined the Army." he retorts, as lightly as he can. Bucky's head lolls slightly and his eyes roll in his skull, but he comes back into focus an instant later. Steve keeps moving, choosing not to comment on it.

_Bad. Bad, bad, bad. This is bad._


	13. Chapter 13

As awful as he looked coming off of the table, Bucky seems to recover pretty quickly. He still staggers a bit, but he's able to walk on his own feet after a little while, and while the mildly dazed look never leaves his eyes, he seems to be able to focus on Steve's face when he looks over at him, and that's progress.

Steve jogs to a halt for the third time in ten minutes as Bucky weaves sideways behind him and ends up leaning heavily against a wall. His face is pale and the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced, but he looks steadier than he was.

"What'd they do to you?" Bucky asks quietly, head tipped against the cold metal of the wall.  
When Steve doesn't answer, he rolls himself until his back is braced and slides down to sit, knees crooked up to rest his arms against. Bucky looks exhausted. "_Jesus Christ_, Steve, please tell me I'm hallucinatin' this…"

"Bucky-"

"I can't trust anything I see." Bucky's hushed. He sounds broken down, just this side of hysterical. "I don't know what the fuck they did to me in there, but I been seeing shit for days, so I ain't in the mood for anymore imaginary bullshit right now."  
Bucky's chest is heaving and he's getting visibly upset.

"Buck, I'm real. I swear to god. Ask me anything. I'll prove it to you. Just we gotta keep moving."

Bucky shakes his head, slumping a little where he sits. He raises his eyes again, fixing them on Steve like a needle through skin.  
"What. Happened?"

"We don't have time for-" Steve starts toward him, freezing when Bucky's chin comes up and his eyes don't waver.

"I'm pretty sure I just walked outta actual literal hell, Steve." Bucky's unsteady gaze is cold and piercing on him. "And while I 'preciate the help, I'm not goin' anywhere until you tell me what the _fuck_ happened t' you!"

Steve blinks, chewing his lip indecisively. Shouting seems to have worn Bucky out. His shoulders are heaving as he works to catch his breath. They don't have the time and Bucky doesn't have the strength to sit here arguing about it.  
He'll stick to the abbreviated version.

"They gave me a serum that changed me." Steve tells him, crouching down beside his friend. "Put me in this big metal box and made me stronger. Made me healthy for a change. They fixed me…"

Bucky stares at him.

"Weren't broken." He mutters hoarsely.

"I wasn't much good the way I was."

"You even know what they gave you?"

Steve looks away, and he can hear Bucky's quiet snort of disgust.  
"Nobody does. That's kind of the problem. They can't replicate it."

"Goddamn it Steve…" Bucky breathes, sounding like the effort hurts him. He starts to struggle up to his feet, accepting Steve's hand up as they lurch into motion again.  
"When'd all this stupid happen?"

"Well...you remember the Expo? How I said I was gonna try my luck?" Steve averts his eyes.  
He hears Bucky's sharp intake of breath, followed by a hacking cough. Fortunately, it lasts only a moment.

"You sneaky little son of a bitch…" Bucky mutters, stumbling for a step before he regains his footing. "I leave you alone for an hour…"

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, but I knew you'd skin me if I did, and you had so much other stuff to worry about…"

Bucky is quiet for a long moment as they round a corner and head toward the center of the facility. Their boots clattering against metal flooring echoes through the empty hallways.  
They've got to find the others and regroup to make their escape. Every moment they spend here is another moment that much closer to death.

"Did it hurt?" Bucky asks suddenly. He flinches and winces at the sound of his own voice as he asks, and Steve can't help but wonder, not for the first time, what Bucky's actually been put through. He tries to keep his voice light.

"A little." _more than I thought I'd be able to survive, but hey, look at me now!  
_Steve is careful what he omits from his answer.  
Bucky's already furious at him, there's no need to make it worse.

"Is it permanent?" Bucky stumbles a bit, following Steve down the next hallway.

"So far."

Bucky looks like he has more questions, one of which being 'what the goddamn hell were you thinking?!' if he knows that expression as well as he thinks he does, but they're interrupted by a series of explosions beneath their feet.

This place is coming down. They need to get out NOW.


	14. Chapter 14

The beam scrapes free and tumbles beneath Bucky's feet, leaving him just enough time to leap clear, clinging to the opposite balcony and clumsily hauling himself up and over. To Steve's infinite relief, Bucky's grip holds and he drops safely over the rail and onto the catwalk beyond, which stays steady under his weight. Bucky stares back across the fiery abyss, looking as helpless as Steve feels.

Somehow the possibility that he might not make it out of here alive never seemed quite real to Steve before. He's very keenly aware of that possibility now… but at least he got Bucky out. That's what matters.

They lock gazes for a few moments before Bucky begins frantically casting around the inferno that surrounds them, looking for a solution that's not there.  
"There's gotta be a rope or something!" He calls, sounding half-panicked, though they both already know there isn't. They aren't that lucky.

"Just go!" Steve waves him onward. He's been prepared to die since he was just a little kid. Nobody ever expected him to survive long enough to reach 27... so he's already done better than he ever thought he could. Can't ask for much more than that.  
He came to save Bucky and the others, and he has. That's enough.  
"Get out of here!" He calls, waving his whole arm again.

"No!" Bucky bellows in answer immediately, jaw set and dazed eyes as hard as diamonds. "Not without you!" He tightens his grip on the rail and glares back at Steve.  
_I will stand right here and burn to the ground with this place if you don't get your ass over here._ Bucky's expression informs him clearly. _So help me, Steve. It's both of us or nothing._

Steve gets the message. He might be willing to accept his own death, but like hell he's going to let Bucky burn. They came this far...  
He's already done several crazy, impossible things today. Why not one more?

He feels Bucky's eyes on him as he bends back the sturdy metal railing of the walkway and backs up as far as the space will allow. Then he fixes his eyes firmly on his friend, waiting beyond the burning deathtrap just beneath their feet… runs, and leaps for his life.

Bucky catches his wrist as he nearly skates off the edge of the walkway, hauling him bodily to safety just before a fireball the size of Central Park erupts behind him.

The metal creaks ominously underfoot, and they both take off running.  
"Don't you _ever_ do that stupid fucking 'go on without me' bullshit again; you hear me you little punk?" Bucky swats him in the back of the head as they sprint to escape the swiftly collapsing building. The fact that he has to reach up now to smack Steve's head doesn't seem to do anything to deter him "I swear to god, Rogers, you're gonna be the death of me." Bucky mutters.

Steve throws an arm around Bucky's shoulders, grins at him in sheer giddy disbelief that they've made it this far in more or less one piece, and runs like hell.

They make it outside with less than a moment to spare. The whole place comes down right on their heels, and he can feel the heat cooking his back as the building goes up in flames.

Before Steve can even register that they're out and alive -and how the hell did they manage _that_ trick? - a cheer goes up from the assembled men in the yard outside. He'd almost forgotten about the freed prisoners in the chaos of their escape.

"Holy fuck, he actually made it!"

"And he found Sarge!"

"Goddamn it's good to see you in one piece, Jimmy!"

"I don't know what happened in there, lads, and right now I don't much care. I suggest we put as much distance between this disaster and ourselves as we can. Quickly."

And just like that, they're on the move again.

Bucky makes it half a mile before he staggers and his legs give out beneath him. Steve just manages to catch him by the shoulders before he goes down in a heap.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: Another three chapter update! This one's a bit longer than usual since we're getting into some meatier plot bits now. Enjoy :D**_

* * *

Bucky's in bad shape. They've managed to get some water into him, but he's not coming around and he keeps thrashing and jibbering, only marginally conscious. Every time someone touches him, he screams like he's been stabbed, and the thrashing only gets worse. His eyes are rolled back in his head and he whimpers in a very un-Bucky-like way every so often, begging some invisible person to stop.  
Steve is beyond disturbed. He's horrified.

He walks alongside the truck where they've finally managed to get Bucky more or less settled down, alternating between watching the path in front of them and glancing at the wall of heavy canvas fabric that separates him from his best friend. He tries to let himself believe that Bucky's asleep - that he's getting much needed rest… but the awful groans of pain and the occasional muffled sob drifting through the material destroy that illusion before it gains any traction.

With the transponder Peggy gave him smashed, they've got a long way to go before they'll get any help. He's not sure what he'll do if Bucky doesn't make it that far…

When they call a halt for the night, he climbs up into the cramped truck and weaves his way around sick and wounded men, crouching down between Bucky and the wall.

"Buck…?" He whispers. "C'n you hear me, buddy?"  
Bucky's slack, sweat-sheened face rolls slightly in his direction with a muffled groan, but there is no further reaction.  
"You gotta drink, Buck. Sit up for me?"  
Bucky doesn't move.

Steve sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and willing himself not to break down. God knows he wants to.  
Bucky has always been the one person he can depend on. The guy who knows just what to do. Who hauls him out of trouble.  
And now Bucky's lying in a shivering heap on the floor of a hijacked truck in the middle of godforsaken nowhere… And Steve's got no idea what he's supposed to do from here.  
He just knows he's got to keep himself together. He can't break. Too many people are depending on him. Bucky's depending on him. He's gotta be tougher than the mess they're in.  
Desperate to think about something, -anything- else, he casts a weary glance around the truck.

A corporal with a badly burned leg had been idly watching them in silence, propped against a wadded up old ruck-sack across the truck-bed. He nods at Steve, before shuffling gingerly to lie down on his good side, facing away from them both. Allowing what little measure of privacy can be given. Everyone else has already dropped off into uneasy, restless sleep for the night.

Steve turns his attention back to his inert best friend.  
"Please, Buck. You gotta sit up and drink something."  
Bucky just lies there, shivering, and offers no reply.  
"Bucky? Buck, come on…"

Nothing.

_Well, so much for the easy way…_

Steve gently eases his hands under Bucky's shoulder-blades, relieved that though his friend tenses and shivers painfully, he doesn't start to scream again. Gingerly, Steve slides his knees under Bucky's shoulders and props his friend's head against his chest. It lolls drunkenly until he presses his fingers under Bucky's chin and tips his head back, holding a canteen to his friend's lips.  
It's tricky, getting water down an uncooperative throat without choking the patient, but Steve's had practice. His mother was nearly helpless for the last six months of her life. She couldn't eat, couldn't drink… could barely breathe. Bad as Bucky is, Steve knows that at least he's not dying. He knows the signs of that far too well by now.

There's a weak cough and a shudder from the limp form that's slumped against him. He pulls the canteen back.  
"...Steve…?" The voice is faint and Bucky's eyes are still dark and listless, but they're focused up on him. Bucky's face crinkles into a grimace and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if he's willing them to focus, then blinks them wearily open again. "The… hell are we?"

"We're a few miles from the factory. Heading south, last I checked. We're stopped for the night right now."

"Oh…" Bucky seems to digest this information for a few moments, before moving awkwardly to push himself up and away from Steve. He sways dangerous, nearly overbalancing and tipping over, but manages to get himself seated upright under his own power. He reaches a hand out for the canteen and Steve passes it over without comment, relieved beyond measure to see Bucky conscious and speaking again.

Bucky takes a long pull from the canteen, gulping water like he hasn't had a drink in weeks, letting up only when he seems to run out of breath. His head falls back for a few moments before he sits up straight again.  
"Holy… fuck… feel like I got hit by a tank," he groans, massaging at his eyes wearily. "… An' then it ran my ass over…" He caps the canteen with some effort, voice coming out scratchy and rough when he speaks. "How… how long was I out?"

"A while." Steve evades. Bucky's been hallucinating and feverish for six or seven hours. He's well aware that that's not a particularly good sign.

Bucky, surprisingly, just nods. He still looks woozy, doubling over himself and cradling his head in his hands. Steve reaches out and gently sets a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Bucky recoils instantly, like he's been bitten, lurching as far out of Steve's reach as he can get. His eyes are wide and he's breathing hard, looking like his heart's about to beat out of his chest. He tumbles over himself to the plank bed of the truck in his haste, trying to scrabble for more distance. He looks absolutely terrified for a split second before he seems to realize where he is.

"_Jeesus_, Steve." Bucky pants, slowly easing himself back up and looking mortified and exhausted. "Don't do that." His face is gaunt and drawn in the shadows. "You scared the hell outta me."

"Bucky-…" Steve knows his concern has to be showing on his face, and Bucky must see it. He knows Bucky hates being pitied as much as he himself does, but he just can't help it. This is going to feed his nightmares for ages. He can tell that already.

"Just startled me…" Bucky says sullenly looking anywhere but at Steve. " 'S'all…"  
He struggles off the cap of the canteen and takes another long drink, staring at the hard rounded metal in his hand when he's finished - presumably so he won't have to meet Steve's eyes.

"What'd they do to you?" Steve asks, hushed, feeling his eyes stinging. He blinks away stubborn moisture before it can become obvious. "Bucky… what the hell did they do to you?"

Bucky is silent for a long time, staring down at the canteen in his hands. He doesn't look up.  
"I don't know." he says, barely a whisper. "But it hurt like hell. "

"Captain?" One of the rescued men, French, appears just then at the rear flap of the truck. Steve can't determine the man's rank, but he appears to be a low-level officer. The soldier glances apologetically at Bucky before he continues. Apparently they've met before.  
"I'm sorry sir," The frenchman goes on, turning his attention to Steve. He speaks with a thick, heavy accent. English is clearly something of a struggle for him. "-but we need your input. We don't have many supplies and we have to figure out what to do."

Steve glances at Bucky, then back at the waiting soldier, torn.  
Bucky, still looking shaken and weak, shuffles himself down onto his makeshift pillow and holds up the canteen in a sort of salute, making Steve's decision for him.

"Go do your captain thing. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure you're-"

"I'm fuckin' useless right now." Bucky waves a hand dismissively over himself as proof. "You're not. Go be useful. I'll keep."

Steve nods slowly, climbing to his feet.  
"I'm coming." He says. The frenchman turns and leaves immediately. Steve hesitates before climbing down to the ground after him, turning back.

"You're not useless, Bucky. You're never useless."

Bucky snorts at that, but says nothing.

Steve lets it go.


	16. Chapter 16

A small cluster of men, most of whom he recognizes from the first cell he opened, are waiting around a small discrete fire. The quiet rumble of their chatter dies off immediately as Steve gets closer, all of them watching him expectantly. Steve's never been a commander of anything. He's not entirely sure how he's meant to handle this.

"You needed me?" He says, restating the obvious, hoping one of the men will take over where he's left off.

A big man with an equally big moustache regards him interestedly.  
"You're that Captain America guy, aren't ya? I saw the comic books back in Limey Town."  
There's an irritated grunt from a little further down the line. The big man chuckles at the withering glance he's getting from the British officer seated next to him. "Sorry, sorry. I'm tryin' to behave, Fallsy. Honest."  
The other man just rolls his eyes and goes back to warming his hands over the fire. This is clearly an old argument, and not one he feels like getting back into now.  
"Where'r your tights? Don't wear 'em in the field?"

"Uh… yeah, actually. I'm him… and yes, unfortunately, I'm still wearing the tights." Very unfortunately. They bind after a while. "Didn't really have time to change before… y'know."  
Steve shrugs self consciously. No point in lying about it.  
"So...About the supplies?"

"Right. Just a minute on that." The big man continues, completely unconcerned. The others don't seem fazed by this conversation in the slightest. He'd lay money this was discussed at some length before they went to find him. "First, how's Jimmy doin'?"

"Who?" Steve blinks. Was he meant to be keeping track of the status of all the other wounded? He feels a brief flash of guilt that he has no idea who they're talking about.

The big man rolls his eyes. "Sarge? Barnes? ...Bucky? Y'know, the guy you were just talkin' to?"

"Ah... Bucky's- " Steve hesitates.

Is he talking to Bucky's friends, or are these guys a cluster of bullies? Should he trust them with private information? ...Is there any such thing as private out here?  
They don't seem to much care if Steve outranks them (however technically) and he's already seen them bickering amongst themselves. Maybe Bucky can't stand these guys. Maybe they're looking to get back at him for something… And he's honestly amazed Bucky hasn't throttled this guy for the nickname by now.  
Bucky has ALWAYS hated being called 'James' or 'Jim', but he especially loathes 'Jimmy'. He once threatened to end their friendship when Steve was 10, all because he called Bucky by that name. Steve's fairly sure Bucky didn't mean it, but it was still a pretty dire threat for an 11 year old to make.  
...Does he want to trust people who use a name Bucky hates?

It doesn't _seem_ malicious… And the guy does _look_ genuinely concerned...  
It does no one any good to create rifts when they'll need everyone pulling together to get out of this alive, Steve reasons. He decides to give them the benefit of the doubt.

"Buck's… um… He's… Well he's awake. I'm not sure beyond that. He'll probably need to be checked out when we get back."

"Look - we'll be straight with you, Cap." A man that Steve would guess is at least partly Japanese pipes up, with a thick Californian accent. He thinks he remembers the guy saying something about Fresno during the escape. "We're trustin' you mostly because Sarge trusts you. I don't know what your deal with him is, but he's one of us, and we never thought we'd see the poor bastard again when they dragged him out." The others nod at this. "You seem like you're on the level. And, y'know springing us from that shit-hole helps your case a lot."

"I think what both of these… gentlemen… are trying to say, " the Brit interjects, actually joining the conversation for the first time, "is that we all appreciate your rescuing Barnes. We truly believed he'd been killed when they took him out of the cells. What we don't know is who exactly we're now following through… wherever this is."

"Italy." A friendly looking black man supplies, working on finishing up the last of a plate of tinned beans. "About 8 and half miles from hell, give or take."

"Yes." The Brit nods acknowledgingly. "Italy. At any rate, we're well aware you're not actually an officer, Captain. So we'd really quite like to know what you're doing here and why you're the one leading this interesting little adventure."

Steve considers this for a few moments, then takes a chance and settles himself in a vacant seat beside the fire. No one voices any objection.  
"My name's Steve. Steve Rogers. And I grew up with Bucky in Brooklyn." he says, accepting a mug of what can generously be called 'coffee' that's handed to him. "He's my best friend, and always has been. I heard his unit was captured and I came looking him. What else do you want to know?"

Everything, as it turns out.


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky is out cold when Steve climbs up into the truck again to check on him. Snoring, fortunately, so he's actually asleep this time, not just unconscious.  
He starts to stand, preparing to leave, but a choked noise, low in his friend's throat, stops him. Bucky mutters plaintively once or twice, and yelps in his sleep before rolling over and hunching into a ball. He shivers hard then goes utterly still, but for the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. The choking noise comes again, muffled, like he's trying to stay silent.

Steve almost moves to wake him, but stops himself just before his fingers make contact.

If Bucky balked at a friendly hand when he was awake, he'd probably come completely unglued if someone woke him straight out of a nightmare. Steve hesitates a moment, then contents himself with squeezing into the tiny space at Bucky's back, to share whatever of the warmth he now generates like a furnace that he can, and tries to get some sleep himself.

It's all he can give for tonight.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: Today is a two-parter, tomorrow will be a 3-part. Lots to cover during the march back, so strap in and enjoy the ride!**_

* * *

Bucky rides grudgingly in the truck throughout the next day's march, largely because he can't stand up under his own power. He's got vertigo in spades and squints against the daylight creeping in here and there, like it burns his eyes. Steve catches him rubbing at his forehead like he's got a godawful migraine more than once, though Bucky snaps at him to drop it when he asks.

Steve makes a point to climb up into the truck beside his friend whenever the company stops to rest or eat - or as much as he can get away with, anyway. He _is_ still the de facto leader of a few hundred wounded, weary troops, and they need his time and attention just as much as Bucky does.

It truly amazes Steve how readily it all comes to him. Leading the men. Strategy and problem-solving. Organizing the most able-bodied to scout while the wounded and sick bring up the rear. It's engrossing and engaging, and he finds he could easily lose himself in it if he wasn't careful.

He has to be very careful.

The problem is, if Steve doesn't badger him, Bucky won't remember to eat and barely drinks enough to stay alive. The others from the 107th try to look out for Bucky too, knowing a little of what happened to him, but they're often busy trying to scrounge supplies or tending to the worst of the wounded. Nobody really has the energy to spare to keep track of any particular soldier really, except Steve, and that's more a matter of will-power than anything else.

Bucky is usually conscious and mostly lucid now, but he still spends most of his time just lying on his back and groaning every so often when the truck jolts over a bump and jars some tender injury.  
He eases up onto his elbows when Steve crouches down beside him, putting on a strained smirk in greeting. Even in the dim light of the canvas-sheltered truck-bed, he looks ashen and tired. Steve hands him a mess-kit with what food he could scrape together from their dwindling rations. It's still warm from the camp-fire and accompanied by a freshly filled canteen. He helps Bucky get himself up and arranged before settling back on his heels to make sure it all gets eaten.

The whole situation is a strange, jarring role-reversal from their time growing up in Brooklyn. Steve was always the smaller one then. The one that could barely keep himself going. The one that Bucky had to look after wherever he could find time. To be on the other side of that makes Steve feel, ironically, very small... and very inadequate. He's constantly on edge, not sure what to do, or if he's doing anything right. Lives are in his hands, and for the first time since he started this whole mess, he's not sure he's up to the task.

Bucky just seems to be in a bad mood in general, so if he notices the similarities, Steve honestly couldn't say.


	19. Chapter 19

"You feelin' any better today?" Steve asks, pleased that the thin stew is vanishing steadily.

Bucky hesitates.

"Some." he says after a moment, busying himself with chasing a chunk of what is probably beef around the tin plate. "Ain't dead."

Steve tries to study him discreetly, watching for the little tells of pain that he knows Bucky's got. As best he can tell, his friend is honestly doing better. Much better, in fact, than Steve would've expected so soon.  
"Keep it that way, huh?" Steve tells him, trying for levity.

Bucky doesn't smile. He spends a long time staring at his spoon, then sets it down with a resigned sigh. His shoulders square almost imperceptibly.  
"Look… Steve… Are you ok? You can tell me."  
When Steve doesn't answer, the mess plate comes to rest in Bucky's lap, mostly empty.  
"You just got turned into Superman, what… a couple'a months ago? Gotta be weird…" He shakes his head. "And how the fuck'd you end up gettin' picked to blow up one of the nastiest shit-holes in the war that fast?" Bucky finally raises his eyes to study Steve back. They are disconcertingly intent. "You get on somebody's bad side already?"

"Nobody important." Steve shrugs. The guys that used to harass him all backed off when he came back 100 pounds of muscle heavier. The brass don't really care what he does, as long as the bond sales keep coming.

"They don't send people they _like_ on suicide missions, Steve-o." Bucky smirks at him, wry and charming like he always used to be at home, for just an instant. He shifts himself a little further upright, grunting uncomfortably as a stiff wrinkle of fabric prods against a bruise. "So what'd you do? Mouth off to a general?"

Come to think of it, yes, Steve had done that. But that wasn't what'd landed him here.  
"I uh… I didn't get sent, exactly." He evades. Bucky's eyes widen a fraction and he can see the pieces falling into place. "I might possibly be in a shit-ton of trouble when we get back - just fair warning."

"Jesus, Steve… What'd you _do_?" Bucky looks like he isn't sure he wants to know.

"I came looking for you." Steve tells him simply. "I heard your unit got taken, and you didn't come back…" He studies his own feet with sudden interest. "They said they weren't going to mount a rescue. Too risky… So I mounted my own."

"Holy fuck… you went AWOL…" Bucky's got his head in his hands, looking dazed again. "Steve... this is serious. You know what they do to guys who take off like that?"

"Ticker-tape parade?"

"Stockade." Bucky snaps, grim. "If you're _lucky_."

"I don't care." Steve answers firmly, setting his jaw. Even if they shoot him on sight, it was still worth it. "I told you to get your stupid ass back here in one piece and you didn't listen. What was I s'posed to do?" Bucky glares at him. "And hey, we made a great big mess of whatever it was they were doing in there. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"Fuckin'- ..." Bucky throws his hands up, resigned, wincing as something pulls in his shoulder. He rubs at it absently. "I got your back, Steve. You know I do. But there's not much I can do if they take you away…"

"Don't worry about me." Steve tells him with a self-deprecating shrug. "They got a lot of money sunk into me. I don't think they'll do anything _too _bad. Maybe keep me on a leash or something."

"I hope you're right." Bucky says, still doubtful. He sizes Steve up, a reluctant smirk flittering onto his face at that image. "Have to be one hell of a big leash at this point."

"Wouldn't work anyways." Steve remarks, standing up to join the men who are gathering to resume their slow march to safety. "I don't do so well at behaving like a good boy."

Bucky snorts, handing over the used mess-kit, but keeping the canteen, as he settles in for another long ride. "Nope." He agrees. "Never did."


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N: Uploading Saturday's chapters now, since I won't be home most of the day. Enjoy.**_

_****EDIT** Oopsy, it was pointed out to me that he should be on Bucky's RIGHT, not his left. My bad. Fixed now.**_

* * *

Bucky is climbing unsteadily down from the truck-bed when Steve comes to see if he's eaten the next morning. They're about to roll out, and he wasn't expecting to find his friend vertical at all, much less moving around.

"Bucky?" Steve picks up the pace, jogging the short distance between them. "What're you doing up? You should rest-"

"Fuck. That." Bucky interrupts him, straightening up now that he's got both feet on the ground. "Those guys are packed in like sardines. No point squishing me in there too if I can walk my own ass back."

"Bucky, you're still worn out-"

Bucky shakes his head decisively.  
"I spent god knows how long layin' on my back wonderin' what was gonna happen to me. If I'm gonna buy it out here, I'm doin' it on my feet."

Steve knows the look in his friend's eyes. They'll waste the entire morning in a battle of wills if he tries to make Bucky back down now. No one will enjoy the experience.  
"You sure you're up to this? It's at least another three miles before we can stop to rest again…"

Bucky's gaze is steadier than his legs, but he doesn't waver.  
"I'll be right behind you, fearless leader." he says, falling in with the front of the line that's slowly forming. "Case I gotta clean up any of your messes like usual."

Steve smiles reluctantly at that as he takes his place just to Bucky's right. He can hear just fine out of both ears now, but old habits die hard. This is where he feels like he belongs. "I'm not gonna punch any Nazis for gettin' fresh with a girl, Bucky."

"Why not? Never stopped you before."

"What girls are they gonna find to bother out here?" Steve raises an eyebrow at him as they start forward. To Bucky's credit, he keeps up, even if he's stumbling a bit. Steve is careful to keep one eye on his friend just the same.

"You? You'll find one. If there's one single girl in this whole damned country left to get in trouble over, you'll find her."

"And you'd have a date with her by the time I was done with the guy buggin' her."

"I'd ask if she had a friend that needs savin' too." Bucky shrugs. "I'm a good pal like that."

If he closes his eyes and doesn't think too hard about it, Steve can almost pretend they're back in Brooklyn, snarking at each other about mundane nonsense like they always used to.  
… It's too bad he can't afford to close his eyes out here.

After a while, Bucky falls silent, growing more and more exhausted as the miles pass, and the illusion vanishes altogether.  
Things are different now, and they're never going to be the same again.

Steve's not entirely sure how to get his head around that.


	21. Chapter 21

Steve manages to talk Bucky into returning to the truck for the last leg of the day's march. The terrain has turned rocky and uneven, and Bucky's steps had begun to waver and falter so much over the last mile, that Steve was worried Bucky wouldn't make it to the next safe stopping point at all.  
Bucky insists he can keep going. Steve is pretty sure he can't go another step.

"_Please_, Bucky."

He thinks that Bucky's going to refuse, and that battle of wills he's been dreading all day is going to eat the rest of the afternoon. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately) Bucky must be even more worn out than he looks, because after a few moments of hesitation, he looks away and nods.  
"If it'll make ya feel better…" he mumbles.

"It will." Steve assures him. _And you too _he doesn't add.  
When it comes to Bucky, Steve learned a long time ago to shut up while he's ahead. He's not sure there are two more stubborn human beings anywhere in existence than Bucky and himself. Maybe that's why they've always gotten along so well...

Despite a lot of token protesting that he's fine and doesn't need to be mothered, Bucky's out like a light almost immediately upon laying his head down. He doesn't appear to notice when the company packs up and moves on again. He doesn't even make a sound when the truck lurches and bumps over rough ground, and Steve has to check for the rise and fall of the arm draped over his friend's chest, just to make sure he's still breathing.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: Oops, another little mistake. It should be COLONEL, not Captain.**_

* * *

"Pig-headed little twerp, ain't he?" 'Dum Dum' Dugan, the big moustachioed man, says conversationally, catching Steve's eye wandering toward the canvas of the truck again. Dum Dum's casually strolling just behind Bucky's former spot in line, carefully pacing himself to keep it vacant, like he's saving the space. Now that Steve thinks about it, Dugan's been just over Bucky's shoulder pretty much all day. "I'm glad Jimmy listens to somebody, cause he sure as hell don't listen to me. Thought he was gonna drop flat on his ass again. Stubborn bastard..."

"Bucky's tougher than he looks." Steve tells him crisply, feeling oddly defensive. Bucky _is _pig-headed, and he _did_ look ready to drop. But Steve's not about to let anyone, right or not, give Bucky a hard time right now.

"Sure he is." Dum Dum agrees amiably. "Doesn't mean he's not still a dumb kid when he's beat to shit." Dugan shakes his head. "I'm gonna tell you this, cause I know he won't, and _somebody's_ gotta keep an eye on his stupid ass." The big man shifts closer, dropping his voice slightly. "Kid had pneumonia -bad- in there. Could barely keep it together, but he was tryin' to hide it, see, cause the krauts didn't care if you were sick. You worked or you got dragged outside and shot. There was this colonel, real bastard. Just shit on everybody because he could. Beat the livin' daylights out of Buck one day for slippin' up, just laid him out."  
Steve feels himself tense, blood singing in his ears. His hand curls unconsciously into a fist, though there's no one to aim it at.  
"Jones - you met him last night- he figured the kid wouldn't survive one more shift on the floor, messed up like that, and we knew Colonel Shithead wouldn't let him off. So we arranged for a real nasty accident; just squished the fucker like a bug before he could get to Bucky." Dugan offers him a shadowed grin. "Made one hell of a mess."  
The big man sighs, some of the ease going out of him. "That kept him outta the fire for a day or two while they tried to sort out what happened, but Jimmy still couldn't work... So once things quieted down, they came t'take him away…"  
Steve grits his teeth. He has an idea of what happened after that.  
"Didn't see him again for weeks - not 'til you busted us all out. Figured he was a goner... " Dugan hesitates for a second. "We all knew the guys they took didn't come back. They shot the lucky ones… Sometimes you could hear screamin' late at night, and we'd just try not to think too hard about it."

"Weeks…" Steve murmurs softly.  
Bucky doesn't know what they did in there, but he'd said it was painful. _Incredibly_ painful was the implication. The raw fear he'd shown at the tiniest unexpected touch...  
And they'd had him for weeks. Weeks of torture.  
_Weeks_.  
Steve abruptly veers from the line and plows his fist straight through a tree. The wood splinters around his fingers and the tree groans ominously, though it miraculously doesn't fall. He wrenches himself free and stands, staring at his handiwork and breathing hard for a few moments, ignoring the scratched and sliced skin on his hand. Dugan just watches him with an eyebrow raised. The rest of the company slows and stares.

"Keep moving." Steve orders cooly, turning on his heel and setting off again. "We've got a long way to go."

After a while, Dugan falls back into step with him, posture casual, but his face thoughtful.  
"Bucky's a tough kid," He says quietly, "but they busted him up good in there. He ain't gonna admit it, but he needs somebody t'watch out for him. I wasn't kiddin' when I said you're the only one he listens to. Take care'a the stubborn jackass for me, will ya? "

"I will." Steve tells him softly. "You don't have to ask." There's an edge of hardened steel in his voice. "And neither does he."


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: A minor oops was pointed out to me in Chapter 20. It's fixed now.**_

* * *

Bucky is standing there waiting for him in the morning, when the company starts moving again. Steve doesn't bother questioning if he's feeling up to it this time, just falls in beside his friend and hopes for the best. To Steve's great surprise, Bucky marches steadily with the others all day, though he looks like the effort is wearing him pretty thin.

Steve says nothing, but he's startled at how quickly Bucky seems to be improving. There's still something hard and unfamiliar in his eyes that doesn't seem to be fading, but the bruises are already turning green and brown instead of black and blue, and now that Steve thinks about it, the hint of a limp he had the first day has entirely vanished. He's also showing absolutely no lingering signs of the pneumonia Dugan mentioned. He's barely even sniffled since leaving the factory.  
Bucky's stamina is rebounding impressively, and though he's still a bit gaunt and abused looking, the dark circles under his eyes are fading.

Honestly, Bucky's always been sturdy, and he's always mended quickly from injuries… it's just… Steve can't account for it being quite _this_ quick.

He wonders, privately, if his mind is playing tricks on him. If maybe he's just imagining things with the serum to fuel his already vivid imagination.  
If Bucky _is_ healing faster than usual, he can't imagine it's connected to anything they'd have done in that lab. Why would Bucky's captors take the time to make him healthier if the whole idea was to torture him? … Steve decides he doesn't want to follow that train of thought to conclusion.

He sets the issue aside for now, deciding just to be grateful that his friend is alive and beside him again. Steve knows intimately how much the universe likes to take things away from him. If, just this once, it wants to let him -however improbably- have Bucky back?  
He'll take it.


	24. Chapter 24

_**A/N: Things will get a little less dark in the next chapter or two. :)**_

_**For now... yeah. Have a nice day and go hug a puppy? :D**_

* * *

There are a few small skirmishes on the way to the camp.  
None of the returning men are injured, but everyone is already running lean, and the stress is starting to get to them. Bucky takes to carrying a rifle at all times, picking off scouts that nobody else even notices until they come tumbling out of the trees with a bullet put neatly through their head.

Steve has never seen his friend in action before... and it's jarring. Bucky's never been what he'd call aggressive. He'd been the definition of easy-going at home, only ever getting into it with people that jumped him first, or got out of line about his mom, his sisters, or Steve (his honorary kid brother). To see him kill without a second thought, without hesitation… it just tears a new hole in the world as Steve's always known it. He thinks maybe he's starting to understand where that new hardness in Bucky's eyes comes from.

Steve tries not to think too much about that the first time he has to kill an enemy soldier to protect the other men. The whole fight is chaos. They've almost subdued the small advance team that they've stumbled across when he spots one of the enemy sprinting for the trees. He has a split-second to make the choice between shooting the man or letting him raise the alarm. The company can't fight off any appreciable force right now, and they'd definitely take losses if they had to defend themselves against a well-rested unit. His hand shakes when he pulls the trigger.

The entire experience never leaves him, but as he will learn later, this moment is just one of many that will haunt him for the rest of his improbably long life. As it turns out, the memory will actually be one of the least disturbing nightmares in his collection.  
Someday, nearly a century from now, night terrors will be like old friends. Sleeping without them will be a novelty.

Any night that he gets back to sleep within a few hours of waking up in a cold sweat becomes a good night.


	25. Chapter 25

Surprisingly, Steve not only goes unpunished for his unorthodox rescue, he gets a deafening cheer from the whole camp, at Bucky's lead. Peggy's gaze is openly admiring and even… inviting. She smiles up at him and warmth blooms inside his chest.  
Women don't look at him like that.  
Women have never looked at him like that.  
And here is the most incredible woman he's ever met, looking like she'd very much like to kiss him senseless right here and now…

He finds himself lost in the unexpected moment, the unexpected praise… not realizing until he turns to say something to Bucky that his friend has vanished. He just catches sight of the back of an unmistakable dark, matted head of hair disappearing into the infirmary tent, followed by a stern-faced medic.

He won't see Bucky again for more than three full days.


	26. Chapter 26

_**A/N: And now for some much needed Peggy time.**_

* * *

"Rogers. …Steve? -Steve. Rogers. ...ROGERS." Steve jumps and whirls around, realizing abruptly that Peggy is right behind him. She raises an eyebrow and he feels himself flush.

"Sorry… Just- I guess I was thinking." He's been standing here in the semi-darkness of the private tent they gave him - a luxury out here- since … he's honestly not sure. There have been so many changes to his worldview in the last week alone that he has yet to process, and he can't seem to focus on anything else. He's a little surprised his legs haven't gone to sleep yet.

"Yes, so you have been since this morning." Peggy says, fond exasperation in her tone. She pushes a plate heaped with what looks like ham and beans at him. "I understand there's been a lot to take in, Steve, but you do in fact need to eat. Quite a bit more than usual, as I understand the late doctor's notes."

"Thank you, Peggy, honestly, but-"

"That was not a request." She presses the plate into his hands, followed by a spoon and points him to the camp-chair in the corner of the tent. "Nor is this. Take a seat."

He sits as directed.  
"... Have you and Buck been comparing notes?"

"... That's your friend, isn't it? The one you ran off after." It isn't quite a question.  
He nods, eating slowly because he knows she'll find a way to make him if he doesn't comply.

"Best friend." He chews thoughtfully for a moment. "I dunno what I'd have done if he wasn't there…" He sets down the spoon, then picks it up again when he sees her eyes lingering pointedly on it. "He's all the family I got left… but the nurses won't let me see him."

Peggy watches him in silence for a few moments, crimson lips pursed. She drags his cot closer to the stool and sits down on the edge of it.  
"Steve… you know you're not alone here." She says quietly, hesitating for an instant, as she studies him with dark, intent eyes. "As much as it may not seem like it, with all the foolish posturing and the preening for promotions… there are people here who care very much about you. About each other." Her eyes dart away for a moment, then back to his face.  
"Your friend needs to rest and recover, yes, but you saved his life. _You_ did that." She smiles at him, gentle in a way that Peggy often isn't, and he finds himself smiling weakly back. Not for the first time, he's grateful to have met this woman.  
"Now," She says briskly, as if realizing that she's danced very very close to the edge of something much more intimate than she's quite prepared for. "You ought to take some time to look after yourself. I promise you, the Army is far from finished with you."

He nods, "Yes ma'am. I will." and raises the laden spoon in a miniature salute before placing it in his mouth again.

"Steve." She says admonishingly, though her lips still curl up at the edges. "Honestly. We're quite past 'ma'am' at this point, don't you think? If you wish to be formal, Agent Carter will do. But I'd much prefer you called me Peggy. All of my favorite people do."

She smiles genuinely then, getting to her feet and re-settling his cot where it had been. He's standing politely when she turns around.

"Thank you, Peggy."

The smile widens.  
"You're very welcome, Steve.  
I shall expect you in the mess for dinner at 1800. The conversation is always terribly dull, and I'd very much like to have a dinner-time chat that involves eye-contact, just for a change." She smirks in a very unlady-like fashion and he feels his face warming. "1800. I will send someone to fetch you if you're late." She shakes an elegant finger in front of his nose. "And don't for a moment think that I won't."

His cheeks must be bright red.  
That sounds very much like a date. He's never been on one with a woman who actually wanted to speak to him…

"I'll be there."

"Yes." Peggy agrees. "You will."

Steve spends another long time thinking after she's gone, but his focus has changed. Sharp brown eyes and a genuine red-lipped smile have shouldered out bullet holes and late-night whimpers for the time being.

It's a welcome relief.


	27. Chapter 27

The colonel isn't in the mess. He's been secluded in his tent for days, and aside from a debrief less than an hour after the prisoner's arrival, he's not interested in talking to Steve.  
Steve's been turned away every time he tries to get into Phillips' tent. All thirty-something times that he's tried.  
Trying to get into the infirmary without the colonel's permission is proving similarly fruitless.

Peggy swats his arm after catching him scanning the command table one too many times.  
"You look a bit like a scolded puppy." She tells him quietly, pushing an extra portion of potatoes across the table to him. He's not sure where she'd been hiding it, but now that he's here, he's starving. He make short work of the bland, buttery cubes.  
"Certainly I'm not _that_ dull to talk to?"

"No!" Steve replies instantly, and a little too loudly. He ducks his head when a few curious glances sweep toward them. Peggy rolls her eyes.  
"No… of course not. I just-"

"You were hoping to talk to Colonel Phillips?" Peggy looks utterly unsurprised, biting into a stale biscuit with surprising delicacy. Steve was sure he'd crack a tooth on his.

"... He won't let me see Bucky." He mutters, slumping down a little.  
It's not at all that he doesn't want to talk to Peggy. Far from it. She's fascinating. Captivating. It's just… Bucky's family.

"Steve. Your friend is fine. He just needs to rest. I told you."

"Have you seen him?" Steve asks, perking up.

"I… no." Peggy hesitates. "Not personally. There have been reports from the doctors, though…"

Steve slumps again, elbows propped on the table, and breathes out a muffled sigh through his nose.  
"I can't stand it." he says, after a few moments. "I just… He's my brother, Peggy. Or might as well be. We were always together before he shipped out. Two halves, my mama used to call us…" Peggy watches him in silence. "Anytime I was sick, he was right there. Anytime I got jumped… Anytime I needed somebody, I just had to turn around and there he'd be."

Peggy looks vaguely troubled. She frowns at him.  
"Steve…"

"When my ma died…" He swallows thickly. "I didn't have anybody else. But Bucky was there. He was always _right there_. Always. Now he's been through hell, he's just across the damned camp, and I can't see him, can't talk to him… you're the first person that'll actually even talk to me about what's happening to him."

He lets his head fall forward onto crossed arms. He feels utterly miserable now. Great. Peggy must think he's the worst company she's ever had. No wonder girls never liked him…

"...I can get you in to talk to Colonel Phillips." Peggy says quietly, one hand feather-light on his shoulder. "If you do exactly what I tell you, you'll have a chance to speak to him uninterrupted… but that's the best I can do for you. I'm sorry."

"Won't you get in trouble?" He asks, lifting his head to stare at her with disbelief and undying gratitude.

"If helping you to commandeer a military aircraft and disobey direct orders hasn't gotten me dismissed, I hardly think this will." She shrugs. "Obedience seems something we both struggle with."

Steve makes a mental note. This is the exact moment he fell head over heels in love with Agent Peggy Carter. This is when it became official that he was in too deep. He couldn't fight it if he tried.

Watching her face as she spells out his instructions, he finds that this is one battle he's alright with losing.


	28. Chapter 28

_**A/N: A three-part update :D **_

* * *

Steve lets himself into Colonel Phillips tent when the colonel's aide is out on a smoke break, just as Peggy predicted he would be.  
There's no one to head him off at the door, but there's also no one inside when his eyes adjust to the dim light. He hesitates, standing uncertainly in the middle of the space, stubbing the toe of one boot into the packed dirt floor. He's still standing there when the colonel arrives a few minutes after him, arms laden down with file folders and stacks of forms. He doesn't look remotely startled or surprised by his visitor - but then, Steve would very much like to see the man who could startle Colonel Chester Phillips.

He clears his throat and tries to stand at crisp attention.  
"Please, sir. I understand he needs to rest, but I need to see him. They won't let me in without your ok."

"Rogers, what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" Phillips strolls calmly around him to the desk pushed up against the back wall of the tent, barely glancing at the blonde giant that takes up half the remaining floor space. "I'm pretty sure I told you I was busy the last thirty-seven times you came by." he adds, spreading out an armful of files and leafing through them.

"I need to see Sergeant Barnes, sir."

"I heard you the first time." A few sheets of paper are shifted into another folder. Some notes are jotted at the top of another. "Thing is, what you want isn't real high on my list of priorities right now. The only reason your ass _isn't_ getting busted down so hard you can't sit for a year after the stunt you pulled, is because you just brought back a few hundred men in more or less one piece." Phillips fixes him with an unreadable look. "You might not have noticed, but it takes a lot of resources to take care of that many wounded. I'm still trying to scrounge up enough supplies to go around. You'll have to forgive me if I'm not real concerned about whether or not you get visiting hours while I'm busy making sure these boys get fed."

"Sir-"

"I'm curious, Rogers… What's your backup plan, if I just keep saying no?" The colonel rests his elbows on the desk, leaning forward toward Steve. "You planning to parachute into the infirmary and fight your way out?"

"With respect, sir," Steve persists, not rising to the bait, "Sergeant Barnes is family. Just let me see him. Please. I just want to make sure he's alright."

The colonel regards him assessingly, then leans back in the chair, crossing his arms.

"Son, would this be the _same _Barnes you were looking for right before you stole United States Military property and launched an unauthorized one-man assault on an enemy position?"

"Yes sir." Steve honestly can't argue with the description of what he's done. Intentions aside, he really is lucky not to be sitting in a cell somewhere.

"Do I want to know exactly why you're so hung up on this young man?"

"We grew up together sir. Like I said, he's family."

There's a long silence while the colonel studies him thoughtfully. "0800, tomorrow. One hour. Then you stay the hell out of my hair. Understood?"

"Yes sir." Steve repeats dutifully, a small smile creeping over his face. He isn't above talking back to anyone he has to... but he genuinely finds himself liking Colonel Phillips, though he couldn't quite say why.

"Good. You can start practicing right now. Goodbye, Captain." The colonel points him toward the door without looking up.


	29. Chapter 29

Peggy materializes out of the darkness as Steve starts back toward the cluster of tents they'll be calling home for the next week or so. She jogs a bit to catch up.

"Captain Rogers, a moment?" Her voice betrays no hint that she's been waiting for him. No hint that they had dinner together just a couple of hours ago. She's all business.

"Of course." he says, slowing his pace to let her fall into step beside him. He pushes his hands into his pockets self consciously when she draws level.  
"You… you really don't need to call me 'Captain', Peggy... I was just being a jerk up there."

He'd been surprised enough to hear the Colonel call him 'Captain' a few minutes ago... But then at least it's not 'chorus girl' or 'Star Spangled Man With a Plan' anymore. Phillips' aide had started humming the damned song every time Steve walked past and it was becoming all Steve could do not to sock the guy one.

If he's got to have a stupid nickname around camp, being called 'Captain' isn't so bad. _Anything's_ better than 'Star Spangled Man'.  
He's not about to hold Peggy to some stupid sarcastic crack he made when he was about to jump out of an airplane, though.

"As a matter of fact, Steve-" the corners of her crimson lips tip up in the barest hint of a smile, like she has a fantastic secret that she can't wait to share, "- I do. Though in the spirit of fair-play, I must warn you that should you attempt to give me orders again, we will have very unpleasant words, you and I."  
He's fairly sure she's only joking, but he's not about to push his luck. Steve nods uncertainly as Peggy continues, lips inching ever upward at the edges. "Your rank became official while you were believed killed in action. I think it was intended more as a posthumous honorary title than anything... but we just received word that your commission remains intact." She holds out a small flat black box. "I've been asked to present this to you officially. Congratulations, Captain."

He blinks, accepting the box, and cautiously lifting the lid. Silver captains' bars gleam against the black velveteen lining, twinkling faintly in what little starlight there is. He stares at them for a long moment, barely breathing, then up into Peggy's face. Her eyes are warm and pleased. She's smiling at him.

She's not kidding.  
Peggy's not kidding and this is really happening.  
He really is an officer.  
...A captain…

Bucky's never going to believe this.


	30. Chapter 30

"Why you little shit…"  
Bucky doesn't believe it.  
"You just now made captain? You weren't even a real officer yet?"

He leans back against his pillow, eyebrows raised, as Steve just shrugs.

"I was barely even enlisted, officially…" Steve shrugs. "It was sort of just a stage name at first." He drags over a chair and sits down across the back of it, pleased to see that Bucky's gotten a lot of color back and his cuts and bruises are mostly gone. Buck actually looks pretty good, all told. "Don't ask me how they came up with it. I just put on the monkey suit when they told me to - I didn't pick it out." Bucky snorts at that.  
Steve holds up his newly acquired insignia, a sarcastic smirk curling his lip. "Worked out ok for me though, I guess."

Bucky shakes his head, but he's smiling.  
"Good for you, jackass. Now will you quit tryin' to get yourself killed all the time?"

"I never try to get myself killed, sour-puss."  
Steve sticks his tongue out like a five year old, earning an extremely put-upon eyeroll from his best friend.  
He grins fondly, leaning his head down onto folded arms across the back of the chair. He still isn't used to holding himself like a big man. Every gesture is still that little guy trying to fit into the spaces between. The spaces left over. It feels strange to be given space of his own to fill.  
"Any idea what they're keepin' you here for? You seem like you're doin' fine..."

Bucky shrugs.  
"They won't tell me. Just that I'm not allowed to leave yet. Took some blood once or twice the first day, but that was the last anybody came near me with a needle - thank god." He gives a tiny shudder. Steve refrains from commenting on it.  
Bucky never used to be afraid of needles...  
"Somebody'll ask me questions every now and then, but mostly I just sit here on my ass, killin' time. I'm not even s'posed to get up, except to pee. And you'd think I was pretty damned interesting, seeing how much shit they've been recordin' about me."

"What do they ask about?"

"What _don't_ they ask about is easier." Bucky mutters, slumping irritably against his pillow. "Been super fun tellin' like eight different guys the whole sob-story of what I can remember. Just what I wanna talk about, let me tell ya. Great times around here, Steve."

Steve feels his temper rising, though he knows he really should keep it in check. After the hell Bucky's just come out of, did they really need to make him relive it eight goddamn times? What on earth for?  
He's just about to say as much when something that Bucky's said strikes and holds his attention.

"... What do you mean 'what you can remember'?" Steve asks slowly, tone carefully level.

Bucky's expression falls flat. He looks away.  
"... I don't remember a whole lot before wakin' up in the truck." he says quietly. "And even then, it's kinda hazy sometimes. Everything b'fore that's…. just ...a mess. I got bits an' pieces of you, mostly draggin' me through the factory. Pretty sure I remember you jumpin' over a big explosion - mostly 'cause that's just the kind of stupid shit you'd do… But I got just about nothin' from before you showed up."

"You don't remember any of it?" Steve can't decide if that idea horrifies him or if he's relieved that Bucky's been spared the memory of what was done to him.

"I remember a few things-..." Bucky hesitates, looking like he can't decide if he ought to say any more. "I mean…" He takes a deep breath and swallows hard. "I… Steve, I really don't wanna talk about that shit anymore."

"Sure, Buck. 'Course." Steve's voice feels thick in his throat, and scratches like barbed wire. He makes himself smile, uneasy though it must look, and quickly changes the subject, dropping his voice conspiratorially.  
"I... uh… I smuggled in some goodies from the guys, if you want 'em."

"God yes." Bucky's distant eyes are bright again as his head comes up. "Infirmary's got even shittier food than the 107th had."

Steve makes a show of checking over his shoulders for nurses, though they're in the only isolated bit of the entire infirmary. Apparently, it isn't just Steve they've been trying to keep Bucky apart from. None of the other men have been allowed any contact either.

"Jones sent you some candy," Steve tells him, setting the forbidden snacks on the edge of Bucky's cot. "Looks like some caramels and a chocolate bar."  
Technically, Bucky's not allowed to eat any junk food while he's being monitored, but as far as either of them are concerned, that's a technicality to be quickly overlooked.

Steve produces a small, cheap, metal flask with a dent on one corner out of his jacket. "Dugan said to warn you, and I'm quoting here: 'it's cheap, strong, and mean, but it'll warm you right up'." He deposits it into Bucky's waiting hands.

"I knew I liked that big bastard." Bucky's smiling, however thinly, as he takes a sip. He immediately makes a face, then caps the flask and shoves it directly under his pillow where the nurses won't find and confiscate it. He's still grimacing when Steve continues.

"Dernier wanted me to give you some really awful girly magazines. I brought 'em, but I'm kinda afraid to touch the pages."

Bucky chuckles at that. "Kid, I ain't sure _I_ wanna touch 'em either. Maybe if I get real, _real _lonely."

Steve makes a face, gingerly passing the rumpled pages over. Bucky tucks them in under the flask.

"Morita scrounged up some trashy science-fiction to rot your brain on." Steve continues, digging out a dime-store novel that looks like it's been kicked around more than read. "And Fallsworth said he'd get you 'a real drink' when you're back on your feet." He gives Bucky a small smirk. "He had a lot to say about Dum Dum's idea of quality liquor. Be glad you missed it."

"You kiddin' me? Sounds like comedy gold." Bucky laughs, settling back again with the novel in his lap. "Those two hated each other's guts for a while. Practically an old married couple now... Don't you tell 'em I said that or they'll both kick my ass."  
He opens one of the caramels and offers the other to Steve, pointedly raising an eyebrow until Steve takes the candy and eats it. The chocolate bar is stashed away for later.  
"How much longer you got 'fore somebody comes to chase you off?"

"He said I had an hour, so probably not a whole lot longer." Steve sighs, scruffing a hand through his hair. Now that he's here, he's really not looking forward to having to leave again.  
He feels like a piece of himself is missing when Bucky's not there. They grew up practically in each other's back pockets, and the air just feels strangely empty around him whenever his best friend isn't there to help fill it.  
"You need anything while I'm here?"

"Yeah, find me a pretty dame that's got a thing for guys in uniform, and have her come see me." Bucky grins at him, waggling his eyebrows, and Steve gives him a half-hearted swat on the arm.

"Gonna show her your dirty magazine?"

"Nah, that's for later, if I don't get a goodnight kiss."

"I don't seem to remember goodnight kisses including quite that much tong-"

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers?"

Steve chokes mid-sentence, nearly tumbling out of his chair in his haste to whip around, when a petite freckled nurse peeks her head around the curtain that divides Bucky's tiny area from the rest of the infirmary tent. He's sure his face has gone bright red, but he tries to keep as composed as he can manage.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's been just over an hour. The Colonel was very firm on the duration of your visit."

"No… that's… it's fine. I'll be right out."

She looks like she's about to say something else, maybe to tell him to leave right this minute; but instead she just nods reluctantly and disappears behind the curtain again.

"Very smooth, Steve."

"Oh shut up." Steve grumps, without heat. "How was I supposed to know she'd walk in right when I was making a dirty joke?!"

"Hey, maybe she'd like to hear it." Bucky shrugs, hands behind his head. "Tell you what. First thing when I get outta this dump, I'm teachin' you how to talk to women. You're hopeless."

"I talked to her!" Steve retorts, gathering his jacket off of the back of the chair and fussing with the box that contains his new bars - finding little reasons to linger before he has to leave his best friend behind again.

"Yeah, like she was about to bite your stupid head off."

Steve can hear the nurse impatiently busying herself not far away, watching for him to hurry up and leave. He can't drag his feet much longer or she'll come back to escort him out.

"I have to go before they drag me out by the hair." Steve sighs, "Take care of yourself, ok?"

"Got nothin' better to do until they let me off the leash." Bucky smirks. "I'll be fine. See ya on the outside."

Steve leans down to wrap his arms around Bucky's shoulders, still unused to needing to stoop. He feels his friend's arms wrap loosely around his ribs.

"Bye, jerkass." He mutters into Bucky's hair.

"So long shit-head. Stay outta trouble, least 'till I'm there to bail ya out of it."

"You know me." Steve grins, releasing his grip on Bucky reluctantly, and turning to let himself out.

"Yeah I do," Bucky calls after him, teasing laughter in his voice, "That's what I'm afraid of."


	31. Chapter 31

_**A/N: These next few chapters will be some of the very few in this story that aren't told from Steve's perspective, as there's no real way to do that with information he doesn't have. I think this is important to the story, so I'm doing it anyways. Consider this a plot interlude.**_

_**-Also, I hope you kept your puppies handy for hugging, because things are going to get dark.**_

* * *

"Sergeant Barnes. You look like you're feeling better."

Bucky jolts, immediately snapping to the sharpest attention he can manage while sprawled across a cot in his undershorts, and salutes crisply.  
He hadn't been expecting anybody, or he'd have put on some pants…

"Sir, I-"

"At ease, Barnes," The colonel waves his salute away, dragging over the same chair Steve vacated only a few hours ago. "This isn't a surprise inspection son; I need information. I understand you had quite the adventure out there, Sergeant, and I'd like to hear about it."

"I already told the last half a dozen guys that came in what I remember, sir." he answers, before realizing that came out a lot more irritable and insubordinate than it probably should have. This guy _is_ still his CO, cryptic as he's been, and he _did _keep Steve out of a court-martial…  
"There's nothing else I can add to the telling, sir. There's not all that much _to_ tell that somebody else can't tell better. I promise, I'm not keepin' anything back. I told 'em all of it."

"Yes, I'm very much aware of what you already told the doctors, Barnes." Phillips replies evenly, showing no indication that Bucky's big mouth has gotten him into trouble yet. Guy must just be too used to Steve's over-the-top little-scrapper attitude to notice one more smart-mouth. The colonel takes his time before he continues, making himself comfortable in the chair like this is just an average Thursday afternoon for him.  
"Believe me, I have read a god-awful amount of notes on the whole thing." He leans forward, holding Bucky's eyes with disconcerting intensity. "Problem is, there's still plenty I don't know; so I want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. He thought he was finally done reliving his worst nightmares for a clinically detached audience. He'd started to think that maybe, just maybe, he could start forgetting they ever happened.  
He's had more than enough of sitting there spilling his guts, of having people 'hmm' and nod when he talks about the living fire that burned him from the inside out. He's not sure he's got it in him to go through the whole mess again. He might not make it to the end in one piece this time.

How much more is his country going to ask of him before this is over, he wonders? Aren't the night terrors and phantom pains enough?

"There's honestly nothing else I can tell you that you don't already know, sir." He tries again, ashamed of himself for the way his voice catches. It's nothing but a story. It shouldn't scare the living shit out of him the way it does. He feels his hand starting to shake and shoves it under the edge of the blanket so the Colonel won't see.

"Look, Barnes…" Phillips leans back, setting his hands in his lap wearily. He looks suddenly very tired. "Do you know why you're still here?" He indicates the infirmary tent around them with a loose wave of one hand, before returning it to his lap.

"No sir. I don't." Bucky makes himself bite back the irritation that's rising in his throat.

"You're here because I don't know what to _do_ with you, Barnes." The colonel sighs. He looks like an old man for the first time. "Rogers tells us that you were in isolation for a period of several weeks during which time nobody seems to be able to account for what happened to you. Those who can corroborate that timeline also inform me that you are the only individual ever taken to that lab who walked out of it alive, and that there were numerous rumors of human experimentation taking place in that very same lab.  
Now we already know the enemy has been attempting to develop their own version of the serum to create super-soldiers - Close your mouth, Sergeant, you look like a dead fish." Phillips interrupts himself with a frown. "I already know Rogers told you about Project Rebirth. Kid couldn't keep his mouth shut if the free world depended on it."

Bucky stammers something that might be acknowledgement and snaps his mouth shut. The colonel goes on as if nothing had happened.

"Now see, I could discount those rumors as just that, given how shaky your account is, but here's the thing: I'm told you were not only suffering from a nasty case of pneumonia before you were removed from the common cells, but that they beat the living hell out of you too. Now, pneumonia might go away on its own." The colonel acknowledges. "Not likely, but we'll say it did for the sake of argument. ...But broken bones don't just disappear overnight, Barnes. You grew up with Rogers, so you know as well as I do how long it takes a fractured rib or a busted arm to heal up - and I don't see any mention of them being a problem for you in any report on this incident that I've read."

"Sir-"

"Shut up, son, I'm not finished. Now most interesting to me is that you come out of there, you walk half a mile on pure adrenaline, you hit the dirt. Not surprising.  
But then here's the part I don't understand, Sergeant. Less than eight hours later, you wake up with a headache and shaky knees, and not much else. You're up and walking two days later. You're marching 8-10 miles a day, one day after that. You're hitting targets most of our top sharpshooters wouldn't even _see_, from over a mile away, _and _you're doing all of that within 72 hours of an experience that has killed many other men.  
Now, you can, I imagine, figure out what about that whole scenario seems just a little bit off."

"Colonel-"

"Tell me what happened, Barnes. This is vital intel. We are at war and right now things do not look good. Lives are at stake. I get it's not a fun conversation, but war is hell."

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and steels himself. He's not going to get out of this. He nods.

"Yes sir."

* * *

_**A/N: Those of you who have read my other story, 'Who the Hell is Bucky?' will probably remember a similar conversation taking place in that story. **_

_**It remains my headcanon that Phillips is a smart man and an experienced officer who notices things other people don't. I think he'd put two and two together pretty quickly once he debriefed everybody and the doctors saw how much healthier Bucky looked than he should've. **_

_**I refuse to believe **__nobody __**noticed that something was up with Bucky. Especially not once the spotlight was firmly focused on him as A) Captain America's best friend, B) The only guy ever to survive Zola's lab, and C) clearly suffering lingering effects from his experiences, above and beyond the normal 'my life sucks' reaction of a soldier who's seen combat. Somebody has to have been paying attention.**_


	32. Chapter 32

_**A/N: I goofed on the rank of the guy who beats the shit out of Bucky. It's actually COLONEL Lohmer, not Captain. I corrected it in Chapter 22, and I'm using the correct title here.**_

_**Also: WARNING. This is going to get intense. Graphic descriptions of torture and violence. Those with delicate sensibilities may want to look away. You have been warned.**_

* * *

Bucky honestly doesn't remember all that much.. at least not after they take him away.  
He's clear on everything up to his capture.

He remembers being shoved into a cell with the others, his chest already feeling tight and his head already spinning, and just _knowing_ he's done for. He's lived with Steve long enough to know pneumonia symptoms, and around here, that's a death-sentence.  
He keeps the coughing as quiet as he can, tries not to sway when he walks, and does his best to look healthy. He knows Dugan has noticed even before things really go to hell. Apparently the others have too, though among them, only Jones really knows him well enough to give a shit then.

When things finally come to a head, he's too dizzy and dazed to notice Dernier's cart coming toward him until he's run straight into it, scattering shells all over the floor, and dropping him to his knees with the impact, coughing so hard he half expects a lung to come up too. It's too late to try to go unnoticed, as Lohmer, the officer on duty, is crossing the floor in a rage; so he switches tactics and hopes for mercy instead. Just flat out tells them that he's sick and asks if they have a doctor he could see.  
The colonel who's come over to berate him is kind enough to beat the living shit out of him with a shell casing in answer, and leaves him lying there with broken ribs and a fractured arm: a battered heap on the floor. The bastard leaves it to the other prisoners to pick Bucky up, moaning and coughing, and drag him back to the cell, just to get him off of the floor.

Bucky is sure then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is going to die here.

He's never been religious, no matter what his mama tried to instill in him as a kid, but he prays for all he's worth that night, half-conscious on the floor of a Nazi prison cell.

_I know I'm a worthless piece'a shit. I got a bad streak a mile wide. I'm not askin' you to save me. But look after Steve for me. Kid's got nobody else, an' he needs somebody. Just send him _some_body, cause I know I'm not goin' home.  
__Please…_

It doesn't really surprise him when the only answer he gets is a guard somewhere down the line of cells, swearing in German as he makes his rounds, trailing off into angry muttering.

Bucky hadn't expected much.

* * *

The others crowd around where he lays, curled around his damaged ribs on a half-rotted old pallette, when they're finally allowed to return for the night. Dugan is beside himself, swearing and fuming as he paces the tiny space like a caged lion. Big hands shake the bars once or twice, before the pacing resumes.  
Jones has a little medical training, and looks Bucky over with a critical eye while Fallsworth and Dernier wait in silence, eyes flicking from Dugan to Bucky and back. Jones doesn't like what he sees.  
Broken ribs, fractured arm. Multiple contusions, possible concussion. Bucky'd figured that much already, though he'd chalked the dizziness up to his pneumonia. He's just too far gone with pain and fever at that point to bother saying anything. He lays there miserably, trying not to move, trying not to pass out.

He vaguely remembers hearing something about Lohmer, and how unlikely it is he'll let Bucky off the hook after beating him half the death already. Something about shells and gunpowder. He loses the thread of conversation, drifting unsteadily in and out. He doesn't remember the others leaving, but he vaguely recalls waking up to a hell of a lot of noise and commotion coming from the factory floor, and realizing that something big must've happened.

The badly hidden grins on the other prisoner's faces tell him everything before Dugan even opens his mouth.  
He doesn't realized it at the time, but this is the moment when the disorganized handful of men become an uneasy team. Brothers in arms.

It won't occur to him until 80 years later that he was the reason why.


	33. Chapter 33

Bucky spends two days lying in the semi-darkness, feeling like his chest is in a vice and his skull is on fire. He can barely breathe and his head is pounding a steady, aching tattoo, exacerbated by the rough wooden planking under his head . The others speak in low voices around him, occasionally coming over to check on him or try to get a little of the water they've been allowed into him.  
Bucky coughs most of it up, but it keeps him alive.


	34. Chapter 34

Things go from bad to worse when the dust has settled and two guards in black face-masks appear just outside the cell bars.

"Is he alive?" One of them asks in very rough English.

"Yeah he is, no thanks to you bastards." Dugan snaps, moving to place himself between the guards and the pallette. "Now move along, fritz. Nothin' to see here."

The guards exchange a glance and then a nod. Bucky straggles his head up to look at them as they unlock the door.

"The hell do you want?" Dugan is still standing in their way. Bucky knows what they want. They all do. He lays his head back down. There's no point fighting it, and he hasn't got the strength left to do it anyway.

"Here now, leave off. He'll be on his feet in a few days." Fallsworth interjects, getting up. "Let the fellow have a moment's peace, can't you?"

Dernier mutters something in French. Bucky doesn't really speak French, and he's too dizzy to catch much of it, but the tone is plenty angry enough to guess what he said. None of them have missed the frenchman's undying hatred for the Germans.

Jones is sitting beside him on the pallette. He makes no move to get up.  
"This man just needs to rest and he'll be back to work."

The guards shoulder Fallsworth roughly aside, sending him staggering. They size Dugan up and gesture at him to get out of their way.  
Bucky misses whatever happens next, but from the shouting and the sudden influx of masked guards, he can guess neither man moved willingly. Jones is hauled back and tossed out of the way somewhere in the scuffle.

Rough hands haul Bucky up, jostling his broken arm and sending fire through his chest. He screams through his teeth, trying to bite it back and failing miserably. Dugan is swearing up a storm, but he's being held back by three men, one of whom has a gun on him. The cell is thick with bodies in black body-armor and masks.

Bucky is dragged to the door of the cell and shoved through it, tumbling to his knees and staying there, shaking. One of them shoves him with their foot, and he crumples to the floor, eyes screwed shut, trying not to pass out from pain and dizziness.  
Someone kicks at him again, before apparently realizing he physically can't stand up and march as ordered. They haul him more or less upright again and drag him by the arms.  
Bucky passes out before they reach the end of the hall.

He can hear Dugan screaming after them as the darkness closes in.


	35. Chapter 35

"You're sure he is alive?"

"Ja. He's alive. Shake him. He'll scream."

Bucky jolts and hisses through his teeth as one of them jabs him in the ribs to demonstrate. He feels tears stinging at his eyes, but blinks them away. He absolutely will not fucking cry in front of these bastards.

"He'll do." The fat man in round glasses says noncommittally. "Strap him down and we'll begin."

Bucky blacks out again when they cinch leather straps tight over his damaged chest and arm.

* * *

Everything runs together. He's lying on his back and everything hurts more than he ever imagined possible. He wavers in and out of consciousness. The fat man's face fades in and out. Sometimes it's there, above him, other times he just hears a sinisterly forgettable voice off to one side, out of his sight.

Someone takes a needle to his arm, none too gently. His bloodstream is on fire. He screams until his throat aches. He passes out.

* * *

The ribs have stopped hurting. He can breathe. The fat man is there, above him.

"Excellent. The compound is working exactly as I had hoped. It will need further testing." The fat man nods to a person out of sight. Someone steps forward and takes Bucky's ankle in both hands.  
His hazy mind catches up to what is about to happen a second too late.

"Hey, no, wait, what the fuck are you-"  
Bone snaps like brittle twigs. He screams until he can't breathe anymore.

"Set it." The fat man says.  
Bucky doesn't remember what happens next.

* * *

He wakes up to electricity. He's lost time. He's got at least a few days worth more stubble than he started with. Arcs of raw energy spark over his fingertips and his back is bent like a bow as his muscles spasm. His skin is burning, sizzling, and he's too stunned even to scream. His entire body seizes as the voltage increases. He passes out again.

* * *

He remembers, blurrily, waking up once with his midsection cut open, the fat man doing something with a scalpel and a vial of a chemical that he can't identify. Mercifully, he's only conscious for a few seconds before darkness takes him again.  
When he awakes to an empty room an indeterminate amount of time later, he prays fervently that it was a dream.

Later, when he examines himself after his rescue, there is a faint pink line, barely the width of a hair, down the middle of his belly. It vanishes a few days later. He can't stop shuddering for an hour.

* * *

Bucky wakes up in the darkness to the sound of his mother's voice. She's calling him. He struggles to raise his head, still strapped to the hard wood of the table - disoriented and confused.

"Ma…?"

"James, where are you? It's dark…"

"Ma, get outta here!"  
How did they find his mother? And what are they going to do to her…?

"James? James where are you?" The voice is moving farther away.

"Ma, please!" His voice shakes. His body shakes. He's panicking, but he can't help himself.

The voice fades away. He spends the next hour sobbing quietly in the empty lab.

* * *

The next time he hears someone, it's Steve.  
… Steve getting the shit beaten out of him by three or four guys, from the sound of it.

"I can do this all day!" The kid announces, already sounding like he's taken a hit to the gut. There's the sharp crack of a fist connecting with bone, and he hears Steve hit the wall, hard.

"Leave him alone!" Bucky screams, struggling against the straps that hold him down.

"Bucky?"

"Kid, run!" Bucky calls, but the fat man is the one who answers him.

"Interesting." Is all he says. Another needle in his arm.

Bucky blacks out.

* * *

He starts to see things. Thing that can't be real.  
Becca is just a baby, toddling across the table - playing with her blocks in mid-air beside his head. He stares at the vision, wide-eyed, feeling his sanity starting to fray.  
_It's not real, _he reminds himself. _Becca's almost 13. It ain't real… Don't let them fuck with your head. Don't let 'em in._

He sees his friends from highschool walk across the room, shooting the shit about baseball. They walk straight through the wall and vanish, still talking. He hears them on the other side of the wall until they are too far away to make out any longer.

He sees Steve. Sometimes just sitting there across the room, drawing something; bony knees drawn up to his chest. Sometimes getting the stuffing knocked out of him. Sometimes just staring sadly at him.

Steve asks him once, why he's not coming home. Bucky can't find his voice to answer. He's shaking all over when Steve finally fades into the floor and disappears.

* * *

He thinks his arm is missing once, and panics. He thrashes and wriggles, trying to look, to confirm his fears, only to finally struggle up enough to see it lying there, still attached, fingers clenched into a fist. He starts to feel like he's floating. Empty. Boneless. The world slips away from him.

* * *

Everything is emptiness and pain. He has no idea where he is. He vaguely remembers repeating his name, rank, and serial number ad infinitum. He doesn't know how long he lays there just doing that, over and over, while god-only-knows-what goes on around him.

He remembers Steve's face looking down at him and thinking that this is it. He's finally dying, and this is his last hallucination.

"Bucky… Oh my god…"

The hallucination is in army fatigues… that's new.  
And it's tearing off the straps on the table, shaking him like it wants him to wake up. He stops mumbling and stares up at the ceiling in a daze. The hallucinations never did this before.

"Who… who's'ere?" He mutters distantly.

"Steve. It's Steve." The hallucination looks relieved and horrified and… real. So real.

"Steve?" He can't help himself. Even if this is just another horrible dream in the making, he's too starved for this. For his friend. For any kind of comfort in this godforsaken hell-hole. "Steve…" He smiles, in spite of himself, letting Steve sit him up and noticing that this Steve is tall. He's more than that… he's _huge_.  
… He's everything Steve always wanted to be. Always was inside.

Bucky leaves that part out of his retelling. It's not relevant, and fuck the US Army for putting him here in the first place. They took enough out of him already. They don't get to have this too.  
He trails off.

"Steve told you the rest, I think." He finishes lamely. He's embarrassed to realize that he's trembling noticeably, head to foot. He can't muster the energy to try to hide it right now. He feels drained. Exhausted.

"How many times were you injected, son?" The colonel's voice is soft, but his tone make it clear this is still an investigation, not a polite inquiry. He expects to be answered.

"Fuck, I don't know, sir." Bucky scrubs a hand over his face. "I was in and out. At least six for sure. Might be more."

"Was it the same substance every time?"

"Doubt it, sir. Sometimes I would pass out. Sometimes I'd hear things. See things…" He shudders, remembering some of the more awful things his brain tormented him with on that table. "Never the same shit twice."

The colonel doesn't appear to notice that he's not being addressed particularly politely. He nods.  
"Probably different formulas, different chemicals. See what happened on a human guinea-pig..." he mutters. Then he stands up, setting a hand slowly and gently on Bucky's shoulder, telegraphing the motion as he does. Bucky flinches, but doesn't pull away.

"Get some rest, Barnes. I've got some people to meet with. We'll talk tomorrow." Bucky nods, wearily, raising his eyes. The colonel almost smiles at him.  
"Wear pants."

"Yessir…" The words slur a little. Bucky lets out a heavy, silent sigh of relief as the colonel vanishes behind the curtain and he's left alone in his little bubble of isolation again.  
He feels absolutely no shame in breaking down and crying himself out in his cot, as the nurses quietly skirt around his alcove, pointedly going on their rounds without disturbing him.  
He doesn't think he's ever felt more alone in his life.

* * *

_**A/N: I hope you still have that puppy around for hugging...**_


	36. Chapter 36

_**A/N: There may be a slight delay before the next update. I have a few kinks I'm still ironing out of the next few chapters, and I want to make sure I have everything moving smoothly toward the next plot destination. For now, enjoy some Bucky introspection.**_

* * *

Bucky sleeps like a dead man that night. If he dreams, he's not aware of it... But he wakes abruptly to find himself already sitting straight up in his cot, eyes wide, choking on a silent scream, and completely drenched with sweat. He's breathing hard, heaving long straggling breaths through his nose, and his heart is pounding.

He slumps back and scruffs a hand over his face, feeling his shoulders slowly come down from the painfully rigid line they've been forming - and tries his best not to let it bother him.  
It's been a week… maybe less, since he was dragged off of that table and back into the world of the living. He's still getting used to waking up like this; disoriented and halfway into a panic. ...At least this time he doesn't remember the dream, so it can't haunt him all day. That's something.

He rolls out of bed and stumbles off to the latrine and wash-stand, grateful to find them temporarily deserted. He doesn't feel much like being social right now, and like hell he's gonna stand here and make nice after what he was put through yesterday.

The colonel is coming back today. Bucky might finally be getting out of this bizarre little prison cell they've constructed for him. It's just fabric curtains inside a canvas tent… but he might as well be chained to a brick wall for all the freedom that allows.

He's tired of being alone.  
It's not that he wants to be submerged in a crowd… Loud noises still make him jump. Sudden contact gives him the shivers, and he startles too easy these days. But all of that's better than being left alone with his thoughts.  
Anything is better than that.

He misses Steve.  
His mind was quiet with Steve. It felt like being home, just for a short while. He'd been numb to homesickness before Steve's visit. Mercifully numb, he realizes belatedly. Now it gnaws at him like a hungry darkness, worrying at the frayed edges of his mind.

He misses his family too.  
Misses his mama, misses his sisters... Surprisingly misses being dogpiled in his bed by three rowdy little girls at the first hint of sunrise, whenever he went home to visit. He hasn't seen Becca and Rachel or Catherine in months...  
But they're far away from here. Safe. He knows he won't see them until this is over, and that's for the best.

Steve _is _here though, for better or worse. Steve is a precious link to home. He's a physical reminder that there's a world out there that isn't cold and dark and painful.  
And right now he's locked out. Unallowed.

It's driving Bucky crazy.

He misses his biggest problems being Steve picking fights behind the corner store. Misses being able to step in and knock a few heads to make it stop.  
He doesn't even know if he can wrap his head around the full extent of his problems now, and even if he could, he's pretty sure there's not a damned thing he could do about them.

He stares at himself in the cracked mirror someone propped up in here.  
He looks like crap today.

He hauls himself away from the dark direction his thoughts are heading in, and tries to make himself focus, instead, on the mess that his appearance has become.

He'd always prided himself on dressing the best that his measly salary would allow -around medical bills and scraping together enough for rent and food, anyway. He'd somehow always managed to stretch that last dime for a tin of hair-cream and a cheap razor to keep himself neatly groomed.  
He'd looked sharp back in Brooklyn. He'd made sure of it.

He studies himself now: gaunt and whiskery, hair a bird's-nest, dark circles under his eyes.

He really _is _a mess... But at least he's looking better fed and less like somebody took a baseball-bat to him these days...  
He gets to work with a muffled sigh.

Bucky takes his time while he has it, trying to feel refreshed by the process. He doesn't.  
He washes up slowly, dragging the wet rag over his tired face, and shaving off the scruff that's clinging to his chin. He nearly flinches at the thought of baring his throat to the blade, almost can't do it... but it's his own hand, he reminds himself. He's hardly going to attack _himself_. He pushes the fear out of his mind, and just gets it over with as quickly and gingerly as possible.  
He's no less relieved, though, when he's finished and he can push the razor far, far away from him. Which he does. Immediately.  
He tries not to be ashamed of that.

There isn't much hope for his hair at this point. He does his best to fix the tangled heap that it's turned into with his fingers. Nobody has thought to give him a comb, stupidly enough, and there aren't any sitting around on the washstand. Then again, he hasn't bothered to ask for one, so he supposes it's just as much his own fault as theirs.  
His fingers aren't doing much to help.  
He flattens the mess down with his hands as well as he can and lets it be. If he looks like shit, well… he does kind of look like shit, to be honest. If they expect any better after dragging him ass-first out of hell and dumping him in a glorified holding cell with no explanation, they can stuff it.

He's barely even been allowed to see his best friend since he got here - who is coincidentally also listed as his next of kin- and then only after Steve kicked and screamed about it for three days solid.  
And even _that _only bought them one measly fucking hour.

If the whole mess isn't just a huge pile of bullshit, he doesn't know what is.

None of the others they came back with have even been allowed to peek their heads in or send him a goddamn _note_. He's so lonely it's starting to hurt as much as the bruises did.

The camp leadership have been treating him like he's got the plague. Like he's something contagious. Dangerous. Something they have to contain.  
He gets that, to a point - he does- it's just that it's getting really really old and he'd like some fucking answers about just what the hell is going on around here.  
He's sure if anybody knew about the gifts Steve smuggled in, there'd have been hell to pay. He just doesn't quite know why it's such a big damned deal, and nobody's been very forthcoming with an explanation.  
He thinks of the flask that's still stashed under his pillow. Of the slightly squashed chocolate bar, or the gross, but oddly touching gift of Dernier's used 8-pagers. That's all the human contact he's had since Steve left and he got interrogated by Phillips.  
Some return for a wounded soldier...

Bucky's plenty fed up with playing nice by now. He's firmly on his way to pissed.

He wanders back into his own space when he hears people beginning to stir, pulls on his uniform… and waits.

* * *

He's 20 pages into his novel when the curtain draws back and Colonel Phillips reappears.  
"Morning, Barnes. I've got good news and bad news." he announces with no preamble.

Bucky's really not surprised.


	37. Chapter 37

_**A/N: Fair warning, though I have a few more chapters just about ready to go after this one, the update-delay warning remains in effect. I am getting busier IRL and won't have as much downtime to sit down and plan/write chapters. I'll try not to let the story languish TOO much, but it is necessarily not at the top of my priority list.**_

_**I'm still not convinced this one is perfect, but it's trying to strike a very tricky balance and I'm getting tired of re-reading it. I'm calling it close enough here.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

"Which one do you want first?" The colonel is alone, apparently; just like before. Bucky had been half expecting an entourage. Maybe some more doctors to poke him and make vague noises of surprise while they make notes that he won't be allowed to look at.  
Phillips takes a seat matter-of-factly, facing Bucky, who's still perched on the edge of his cot.

Bucky shrugs, unenthused.  
"Either."  
He'll probably hate the news either way, whatever it is.  
He doesn't much trust the army's version of 'good news' anymore. They told him Steve's transformation into this enormous, unfamiliar super-soldier was 'good news'. That Captain America was a great stride forward in the war effort. Bucky had been under the impression that _ending _the damned war was the goal. Apparently he'd been mistaken.  
Bucky fails to see how anything about sticking his best friend on the front lines with a giant target painted on his chest is remotely 'good'.

Phillips' eyebrow hikes up just a hair, but he doesn't comment on Bucky's clearly sour mood.  
"Alright," he says, calm and nonplussed. "The bad news is, you did get some bastard version of the super-soldier serum." the colonel informs him bluntly, not even bothering to sugar-coat it. "Blood tests confirmed it this morning. Serum experimentation was apparently the entire purpose of that lab."  
Bucky says nothing.  
"Seems you were lucky enough to get a fairly advanced version of the shit that didn't kill you right away, but as you are _keenly_ aware, hurt like hell. It's always a bumpy ride, but apparently the shock to the system was usually fatal before your dose. Maybe it still would be on anybody else - they're not sure why you survived. Either way, you got lucky."

Bucky snorts at that and looks at his hands.  
_Lucky_. _Right_.  
Phillips is watching him closely. He ignores it as best he can.  
Bucky's not as surprised as he probably ought to be. Much as most people seem to think he's a stupid goon, he can put two and two together just fine, thanks. After talking to Steve and then to Phillips right after, he'd had his suspicions about what exactly they were doing to him in there.  
He just hadn't really wanted to think about it.

"So what's that mean? I'm gonna turn into Superman... like Steve?"

"No." Phillips shrugs. There's a faint edge of something Bucky can't quite put his finger on in the colonel's otherwise neutral expression. "It'd be nice, but no such luck. Bastard version, remember?  
It -ironically- is what kept you alive on that table, when under normal circumstances we would not be sitting here having this conversation because you'd be six-feet under, Sergeant." He pauses, as if for effect. "Like I said: lucky.  
But best I've been informed, it's got bugs. Kinks they never worked out.  
You're gonna have side-effects, but even our best have no idea what kind - not without doing an examination themselves- and even then they're not sure of anything."

"Great." Bucky mutters, shaking his head with a quiet, mirthless chuckle. "Just great. So I'm a time-bomb, that's what you're tellin' me? …-Sir."

"Stow the bullshit, Barnes, I'm getting to the good news." The colonel's tone lacks bite. He sits back and crosses his arms.  
"You're getting out of here. Whole unit is, in fact. We're bugging out to London ASAP to figure this thing out."

Bucky nods because it's expected, but he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. _Great_. A new holding cell. _Fantastic_. So he can have all _new_ people poke at him and lock him away from the rest of the world. _Same shit, different day._ He can't even bring himself to care anymore.  
He's a little surprised at just how foul his own mood is, but he can't quite muster the energy to shake it off. … Nor can he convince himself that he should bother.

"Best news is," Phillips continues, undaunted "you're not gonna keel over and die - at least not anytime soon. Whatever was in that stuff, nothing seems to have been _immediately _toxic, and even if it was, your blood'll filter it for the time being. Shock is usually the part that gets you. And you survived that."  
Phillips darts a cryptic, sidelong look at him. Bucky looks away. Phillips goes right on anyway, talking to the side of Bucky's head as if he had his full, undivided attention.  
"For the time being, son, as far as anyone knows, you're fine. Better than fine, if we're counting your reflexes and healing time." He pauses, waiting for Bucky to look at him. Bucky does, briefly, when the silence starts to get to him.  
"-And as long as that continues to be the case, we can all just consider all this a real bad dream, and get on with the business of winning this war. You can get back to being a soldier instead of a lab rat - and don't tell me you haven't been dreaming about that, because I'm not blind, Barnes."

Bucky says nothing and returns to uncomfortably studying the floor.

He's not so sure he wants to go back to being a soldier either, but it's not like he has a choice...

Phillips leans into his space. Bucky shifts back a fraction of an inch.  
The colonel lets him.  
"You're getting out of here. Today."  
Bucky's gaze snaps upward so fast he's amazed he doesn't topple over backward. He's finally getting out of this dungeon. He's finally getting out-  
The colonel cuts him off before he can say a word. "You'll be bunking with Rogers for the short term, because god knows I can't keep you two idiots apart without one of you doing something incredibly, _amazingly_ stupid." The colonel cocks his head, something like a grudging smile just hinting at the edges of his lips. " … It's usually Rogers, to be fair."

"Sir, what-"

"-But-" Phillips interrupts, eyes abruptly as cold and hard as steel. Bucky falls silent. He swallows hard as his mouth goes dry, but he doesn't blink.  
"You start feelin' 'funny' - you so much as _sneeze_, Barnes - and I wanna know about it. We are not taking any stupid chances with this mess. You understand me?"

"Yes sir. I do." _Like hell,_ Bucky thinks.  
He's had enough of labs and doctors to last a lifetime. He'll be fucking _dying _before he sets foot back in an infirmary again voluntarily. He's really starting to understand how Steve has always felt about hospitals...

"Good. Now collect your gear and go find your new babysitter. And for the love of god, keep the tearful reunions to yourselves." Phillips adds with some derision.

The colonel makes no move to get up, now that the conversation is over. If anything, he seems to settle in more. Like he's waiting for something. He's seems almost… expectant.  
Bucky falters.

"Sir-"  
He hesitates, half expecting to be shut down again.  
He gets a slight head tilt in reply and nothing more.  
The colonel sits impassively, watching him. Like he knows exactly what Bucky's about to say, and he's just waiting for him to have out with it.  
He doesn't appear to have any interest in helping him along.

"Does-" Bucky hesitates again, then makes himself spit the words out. "Does Steve- Does Captain Rogers ...know about… about any of this?"

"No." The colonel moves then, suddenly looming large and close enough that Bucky is abruptly very claustrophobic. He shuffles backward, but the colonel seems to move with him, and it gains him no distance.  
"And it's gonna _stay _that way."

Bucky tries to shrink back, though he couldn't say what he's actually afraid of. He can feel the colonel's eyes boring into his skull, straight through his eye sockets. His breath speeds up and he has to fight the urge to push past this man and bolt. Whatever protest he was about to raise, it shrivels and dies on his lips.  
He finds that he can't look away, much as he wants to.  
He swallows involuntarily, his throat making a strangled squeak noise that could've been words a few minutes earlier.

Phillips' voice crack over him like a whip as he leans in a fraction of an inch closer. Bucky backs up.  
"We both know Rogers gets real, _real _stupid where you're involved, Barnes."  
Bucky does know that. He's had 20-odd years to get used to Steve's crazy, reckless streak. He doesn't dare nod, though. He can't help but feel like he's not allowed to.  
"_One-man invasion_ stupid." The colonel goes on. "_AWOL_ stupid." The colonel's words are crisp and relentless. "_Dangerous_ stupid." They beat against Bucky's skull in a constant driving rhythm.  
"That kid is a danger to himself and everyone around him when he tries to play hero." the colonel continues, his voice like a razor. Bucky winces and shies away from him, trying not to let it show. The colonel doesn't appear to notice.  
"I don't need him _stupid_. I need him focused on stopping Schmidt, and for that I need him _smart._ Rogers can be a good soldier under the right conditions, but _you_ are the tipping point."  
A thick finger prods him lightly in the chest. Bucky backs up a bit more, scrabbling for space.

"Sir-"  
Phillips is crowding him.  
Bucky inches back until he can feel the curtain behind his cot brushing against his shoulder, but the colonel just won't let him have any breathing room. He's bent at the waist, inches from Bucky's face, and alarm bells are screaming in Bucky's brain. The room starts, inexplicably, to tilt and spin. He's getting dizzy. The colonel is too close, too threatening, and he just can't handle it anymore. His chest tightens with oncoming panic. He fights it down.  
_Not here. Not now._

Phillips either doesn't notice how distressed Bucky's getting or just doesn't care. He continues ruthlessly.  
"You're either a help, or you're a distraction." He bites off the words; calm, hard, and dangerous. His tone is ice-cold iron. "I don't need any distractions in my unit. You play ball or you get the hell out of my Army. You understand me, Sergeant?"

Bucky is sweating. He's distantly aware that a vein is bulging in the colonel's neck, inches from his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his bearings back, and struggles to find his voice.

"I think so, sir."

It comes out thin and strained. He drags in a quiet breath of relief when the colonel abruptly moves back out of his space, feeling his heart pounding near out of his chest. He crumples just a bit, whatever fight he had left going out of him. He hopes to god that Phillips didn't notice that.

Bucky is shaking. He wraps his arms around himself to try to hide it.  
He already hates himself, but he has no choice. Much as he wants out, he's got to stay, and that means he's got to play by the rules he's just been handed. ...Well bludgeoned with, more-like… but semantics aren't important now.

Getting out isn't an option anymore. Not with Steve here.  
He can't leave; couldn't even if they offered him a plane ticket and a fond farewell tomorrow. … Not that they would.  
No matter that he's been dreaming about Brooklyn since he shipped out...  
He can't go anywhere but here, no matter how desperately he'd like to be _anywhere_ but here.

Bucky know his best friend better than he knows himself. He knows exactly what will happen if Steve goes charging off with an army at his back and nobody to reign him in. Somebody will get lucky, or Steve will get stupid. Either way, Steve will get killed.  
Bucky can't risk that.

He knows with absolute certainty that he can't let Steve face this thing without him, no matter how fucking terrified he is.  
The problem is, Steve won't back down - doesn't know _how_ to back down- no matter what kind of danger he's in. No matter what crazy-ass thing he's told to do, Steve will do it or die trying. They just have to get him fired up and point him in the right direction. Bucky's seen it a hundred times.  
God knows Bucky's had to pick him up and clean him up more times than he can count, in the aftermath.  
Steve's too reckless. Too brave. He's done this before with bullies at school, then with street toughs after. He gets an idea in his head and then he doesn't think, he just _does_. He goes and hopes for the best.

Bucky knows all too well what happens to guys who do that on a battle-field. He had to sign condolence letters for a couple of guys in his unit not too long before the clusterfuck of a battle that got them him captured and half his unit vaporized.  
He knows what happens to 'heroes'.

Steve'll get himself killed inside of a week in combat without Bucky here to watch his back. It's not hyperbole - it's fact. And Bucky will never be able to live with himself if something happens to Steve. _Never_.  
He's still trying to come to terms with the fact that his best friend let himself be turned into a science experiment the moment Bucky's back was turned. He can't take the idea of anything worse.

Bucky hates himself more than he's ever done - and that's saying something- ...but it doesn't matter.  
He's going to lie to Steve.  
He's going to lie right straight through his teeth to his best friend, and he's going to smile when he does it. While he lies to the guy that saved his life not one week ago.

It's not like it'll be the first time.

Bucky's lied to Steve half a million times, because there just wasn't a better way to keep the stupid little punk safe and breathing; not with that kid's stubborn streak.  
He'd lied about enlisting. He'd lied that he'd eaten his dinner with the boys on his way home - he doesn't need anything else to eat tonight, honest -Steve should have his half. He's lied a hundred-thousand times to protect Steve.

That's all this is, really… it's just...  
It doesn't matter if it's for Steve's own good - his own protection. It doesn't matter if he's saving Steve from himself. He still feels like a bastard.

He makes himself look the colonel in the eye, swallows hard… and nods.  
"I think so." he repeats, stronger.

The colonel looks away, and if Bucky didn't know better, he'd think he saw the briefest flicker of regret… even shame on his face. It's gone a moment later, and he's sure he imagined it. The army doesn't ever feel bad. About anything. Ever.  
He knows that well enough by now.

"Welcome back to the world, Barnes." Phillips says flatly, leaving him alone to gather his things.  
Alone with his scattered thoughts, now worse than ever.

Bucky thinks being dragged outside and shot might've been kinder.

* * *

_**A/N: If you think Phillips is being OOC, be patient. There is a reason for what he's doing here, and you'll see it in a few more chapters.**_

_**You might not like him any better afterwards, but it will make more sense.**_


	38. Chapter 38

_**A/N: 3-part update today :) After this, I have one more chapter ready to go, and then there will probably be a lag. I wanted to at least get through the Phillip's-heavy chapter I mentioned earlier before letting the story simmer for a little bit. More will come! (Just slowly.)**_

_**We now return to our Steve Rogers' POV, already in progress.**_

* * *

"Hey punk, got space for a roommie in there?"

Steve whirls around to find his best friend in the doorway of the tent - looking a little worse for wear, but smiling like he's up to no good, just the way he remembers. Like a dam bursting, Steve's moving before his brain engages.  
"Bucky!"  
He charges across the tent and sweeps Bucky clear off of his feet, half crushing him in a bear-hug. "Jesus, Buck, am I glad to see you!"  
He hesitates for a second as he feels Bucky tense and startle when his feet leave the ground.

"Hey, hey, easy kid, easy!" Bucky lets himself be manhandled for all of two seconds, then wriggles and swats Steve in the head, laughing uneasilly at him. "Put me down meat-head! I'm finally allowed to use my own feet again - you wanna put me back on 'em?" Steve sheepishly sets him down.  
He still forgets, sometimes, just how much bigger and stronger he really is now. Sometimes, he still feels like he's barely 100 pounds soaking wet - a tiny little thing that people only notice for the wheezing.  
He used to be able to barrel straight into Bucky and bounce off, not 6 months ago. Bucky had thought it was hilarious.  
Now Steve'd probably just level his friend, if he hadn't picked him up instead.  
Bucky's shaking his head, but he's grinning tightly. "Big doofus."

Steve can't help but grin back. "When'd they let you out?"

"This morning. Apparently I get to walk around without a sitter and everything."

Steve nods and gives himself a moment to stand there, just taking Bucky in.  
Buck looks tired and scruffy… but good. He still seems a little hollower than he was. A little darker and a little colder. Steve's trying his best to get used to that…  
But what really matters is that it's Bucky and he's here. That's enough.

"It's real good to see you again, Buck. … I really missed you..."  
He unconsciously reaches up to shove bangs that aren't there anymore to one side. His hair's been trimmed neat, so he doesn't need to, but it's a nervous tic. He doesn't know what else to do with his hands, anyway.  
"I was really startin' to worry they'd never let you outta there." He confesses softly. "… Like somethin' was really wrong…"

A tiny jagged something creases Bucky's smile, but it smooths away again a second later. Bucky tosses his duffle in the corner and sits down on the edge of the cot against one wall. He's quiet for a second, something thoughtful in his eyes.

"I missed you too, kid." is all he says.


	39. Chapter 39

"Jimmy!" Dugan bellows from across the camp when he spots Bucky at Steve's side, headed for the mess.

Steve sees the tiny flinch Bucky gives at the sudden noise. The briefest jolt of panic that flows over his friend's body, then out again as if it had never been. If he didn't know Bucky as well as he does, he probably would've missed it. There's no sign of distress an instant later as Bucky rounds on his heel to meet Dum Dum head-on.

Dugan moves fast for a big man, and the next thing Steve knows, Bucky's abruptly airborne again, this time squeezed against Dugan's enormous shoulder. He's swearing a blue-streak.  
"Had me worried, y'little bastard!" Dum Dum crows, grinning at Bucky - who looks like he can't decide if he's thrilled to see Dum Dum or if he wants to punch him right in the eye. "When they wouldn't let us in, we thought ya were done for! … Y'know, again." He turns to Steve, Bucky still slung over one shoulder, putting on a great show of holding his hat to his chest. "This kid, I tell ya, Cap. Turn yer back on 'im for one second-"

"First of all, it's BUCKY, blockhead. -BUCKY-. And christ, are you ever preachin' to the wrong choir there, buddy boy!" Bucky grumbles, pushing against Dum Dum's arm and wriggling to try to get his feet back on the ground for the second time in a day. Steve notices, but doesn't comment on, the slightly frantic edge in his friend's eyes.  
He can guess well enough why Bucky's not big on being picked up, especially out of the blue. He feels kind of guilty that he did the exact same thing without thinking, not an hour ago.

"Hey, Dugan-" he starts, about to intervene, but Bucky is already talking over him.

"You have any idea what _that _kid does for fun?" Bucky continues, shoving at the back of Dugan's head. "And put me down already, y'big jackass! What is it with you two lunkhead's haulin' me around all the time?"

"-izzat Sarge?!" Steve turns to find Jim Morita emerging from a nearby tent. The soldier stares for a second, then breaks into a grin, ducking his head back under the flap. "Guys, it's Sarge!"

James 'Monty' Fallsworth, Jacque Dernier, Gabe Jones, and a handful of other returned prisoners (who's names he never quite caught), burst out of the tent in an excited clump right as Dugan is finally returning Bucky to the ground, and accepting a half-hearted cuff on the arm as retribution. The big man is still grinning like an idiot, and he doesn't move far from Bucky's side.

Steve stands back out of way as well-wishes and pats on the back are shared all around. A small crowd has formed around Bucky that's quickly getting excited and noisy, and he's ready to stand in and play Captain America to draw off unwanted attention if he needs to give his friend an out.

Bucky looks edgy... But he doesn't jump after the first couple of hands thump on his shoulder, and he seems genuinely happy to see everybody; so Steve gives him space and lets him soak up the attention. He shuffles back several feet and waits. He doesn't want to get in the way or _accidentally_ take over the spotlight if someone suddenly realizes that Captain America is standing here in the middle of the camp like a doofus, so he keeps his head down and just keeps a weather eye on his friend from a short distance.  
For all Buck's been jumping at every noise, he seems like he's been dying for some contact with the outside world, and Steve honestly can't blame him for that. Bucky deserves to have somebody that gives half a damn make a fuss over him for a change. Somebody that isn't just Steve.

The poor guy barely even twitches when someone jostles him, though Steve doesn't miss the momentary flash of nerves that passes over Bucky's face when it happens. He knows his friend way too well to miss that.  
He makes a mental note of it and says nothing.

"Where the hell have you been hiding, Barnes?" Jones asks him with a grin, fishing out and handing over another one of the same caramels he'd sent in with Steve yesterday. He presses it into Bucky's fingers, then shoves Bucky's hand away when he tries to give it back. "Eat the damn thing," he says, raising an eyebrow, "you look like a fuckin' scarecrow, man." Jones glances over at Steve once he's sure Bucky isn't going to try to foist the candy back at him, and reaches over to give him a playful shove in the arm, drawing him back into the thick of things.  
"Your boy here was like a fuckin' puppy the whole time you were out, y'know. Kept hangin' around the infirmary like he was hopin' you'd come take him for a walk."

"Hey! I'm not a- I was not hanging around the infirmary!" Steve protests weakly, holding up his hands in his own defense.  
Honestly...he sort of was… but that was friendly concern, not dependant moping, thank you very much.

Bucky grins at him, finally pocketing the candy, and Steve decides he doesn't really care that much what they decide to call it. He'll take one for the team and accept his ribbing with as much grace as he's got in him.

"Aww, kid, I'm touched." Bucky's grin turns teasing, and he can hear someone, probably Mortia, sniggering off to his left. "You want me to go see if I can find ya bone to chew on or somethin'?"

"Hey, I'm sure we can get a pretty nurse t'scratch ya behind th' ears." Dugan chimes in, and that gets everybody laughing. He mimes scratching at Steve's head, who pushes him off.  
"Who's a good boy? Who's a good li'l Cap?"

"You're hilarious, you bunch of assholes." Steve mutters, though he's grinning himself. "Fucking hilarious."

"Aw, we only give you shit because we care, Cap." Jones tells him matching his grin. Steve shakes his head - he's laughing. It feels good to get crap from friends instead of bullies or army brass for a change.  
He's _got _friends.  
More than just the one.  
It's… nice.

Fallsworth holds out his hand to shake Bucky's instead of launching at him like most of the others. He's a reserved person, Steve thinks. Not prone to many words or much emotion… but he's badly hiding a smile.  
He'll come to find out in time that Monty's not nearly as dignified as he'd like people to believe. Like most soldiers, he's got a good handle on gallows humor, and a dry wit. He just isn't one for emotional displays, and he doesn't bond readily with strangers.

Steve will, several months from now, look at this man across the group's pitiful camp-fire in the hills of northern Italy, and think about that. And smile quietly to himself.  
Bucky was a stranger, when Monty orchestrated the plan that would ultimately save the mouthy, abused American's life. Bucky doesn't remember this, but he was still little more than a stranger when Fallsworth had stood up in the face of two armed guards, already having been shoved around once, and snarled in his most dangerous voice.  
"If you want him, then I suggest you _make_ me move."  
_Leave it to Bucky..._

Dernier has no such boundaries. He just dives right in and hugs Bucky like they're long lost brothers the moment Fallsworth releases Bucky's arm. While the frenchman's not big enough to hoist Buck up into the air, he definitely squeezes him hard enough to knock the wind out of him.  
He jostles Bucky and tosses an arm around his shoulder - a mirror image of what Bucky used to do with Steve, when he was small enough. Dernier laughs, all enthusiasm, and grinningly proclaims something in rapid-fire French that has Jones chuckling. The others just shrug.

Steve really needs to learn to speak French...  
He seems to be missing out on a lot of good stuff without it.

He notices another tiny flinch when Dernier gives Bucky another hard squeeze just before he lets go; smoothed over almost before it appears. Steve makes another mental note: he'll talk to Bucky about it later, in the relative privacy of their now shared quarters.

For the time being, they're more than 20 minutes overdue at the mess, and Peggy's going to kill him.


	40. Chapter 40

"Ah, Captain Rogers. _There _you are. I had wondered if you were coming to dinner at all or if I'd have to fetch you."  
Peggy is standing outside the mess tent when they arrive, clearly waiting for him. Her expression is bemused and mildly disapproving.

Bucky and the others are trailing a couple of paces behind, laughing loud and raucous. Silence falls as they realize there's a lady present, and at least one of them goes red. Peggy looks thoroughly unimpressed. Either she didn't hear whatever dirty joke was being told or she simply doesn't care. Peggy is probably pretty used to this kind of thing by now, he supposes.  
Steve honestly hadn't been listening once the topic moved from Bucky to what the men would all like to do on their next leave. Brothels had come up at least once. He'd quickly diverted his attention to putting one foot in front of the other.  
He really doesn't want to know the rest.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Agent Carter." Steve glances back at Bucky, who's just over his shoulder now, and who's regarding Peggy with a mix of curiosity and surprise. Steve would lay money he's trying not to let the shock that a woman like _this_ is casually making conversation with _Steve _show on his face.  
Buck was probably kind of out of it the first time he unofficially met Peggy, at the gates of the camp. Steve decides to cut him some slack, and doesn't mention it.  
"I.. got a little side-tracked."

I can see that." Peggy's face inches toward smiling. "This must be the famous Sergeant Barnes." Peggy gives him a once over. She doesn't look surprised by Bucky's presence, so as usual, everybody else probably knew what was happening to Bucky long before Steve did. He tries not to resent that. He really does.  
"Looks rather more healthy than I expected, all things considered. I suspect a good meal will do wonders to help that along." She sweeps one hand toward the tent flap. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

All of the men look deeply uncomfortable, confronted with the idea of having to behave themselves in front of Peggy. They're still feeling rowdy, and they certainly can't cut loose in front of a _lady_, especially one as classy-looking as this. There are murmured excuses from at least half of the men, and most of the group peels off and vanishes into the crowded camp as quickly as they had appeared. Not counting Bucky, only five remain.

Steve's starting to notice a trend.

There's a small core group of men that just keep turning up whenever Bucky does. They're a tight-knit group that he just never seems to shake off, each looking out for him in their own subtle way - discounting Dugan who does nothing quietly, and has pretty clearly appointed himself Bucky's official older brother. He's not even trying to be subtle.  
They've almost started to form a unit of their own around Bucky, despite only one of them even being from the 107th and half of them being from other countries entirely. Steve has even begun to memorize their names.  
It's a lot more reassuring than he would've expected: to see people just about as insanely devoted to his friend as he is. Makes him feel less like a crazy person. … And not nearly as jealous as he might've expected of himself.

Because, who wouldn't love Bucky?  
Bucky's a great guy. It's a simple fact. For as long as Steve can remember, people have always loved Bucky Barnes, and he suspects that they always will. The only people who don't have consistently proven to be assholes of the highest order. It's one of the great truths of his universe, and the only one that's still holding up in this new world where he finds himself.

Buck's charming. He's everybody's friend. He's just... magnetic. And Steve knows from experience that Bucky'd give you the coat off his back in the middle of the worst blizzard anyone's seen in years, if you needed it. Or if he'd convinced himself that you did. He'd stand there turning blue and swear up and down he wasn't cold. Bucky's kind of an idiot like that - but then, so is Steve. Maybe that's what makes them such good friends.

Steve can't get mad at the rest of the world for catching on to what he's known for years: Bucky's the best. You can't help but like the guy after spending five minutes with him. Steve never could. Neither could most of Brooklyn.  
And Steve's alright with sharing his best friend, because Bucky _deserves _to be wanted, respected, and liked. So long as the people he's sharing with are good folks, it's all ok.

And so far... he's got a pretty good feeling about these guys.

* * *

Steve notices Bucky's personal entourage carrying out a stealth mission over dinner, long before Bucky does.  
They each quietly shuffle a little something off of their own trays and onto Buck's in turns, whenever he's distracted talking to someone else. Bucky's eating without looking down -inhaling his food like he hasn't eaten in a week- and he certainly hasn't picked up on the fact that more is going into him than should've been on his plate.

Jones contributes a portion of his potatoes. Morita slides over some bread. Dernier is apparently particularly good at this: He manages to get a whole serving of over-cooked vegetables across the gap between their plates, all while he's making eye contact with Bucky - who never seems to suspect a thing.

Steve says nothing; just nudges his own meal a little closer to Dugan's elbow, and turns a blind eye as the baked apple he'd picked up vanishes from his tray and materializes onto Bucky's.  
Dum Dum's got some impressive sleight of hand tricks up his sleeve.

Steve smiles, satisfied that Bucky's in good hands for now, and turns back to Peggy. She just raises an eyebrow, with an expression that clearly says _you can't honestly be doing what I think you're doing_; but she carries on with the conversation flawlessly and doesn't comment.  
He knows she'll dress him down later for giving away food and not eating enough to keep up with his new metabolism, but he's much more concerned about Bucky getting fed than he is about himself right now.  
He can take a good scolding for that, if he has to.

"Hey, hands on your own plate!"  
Bucky finally catches them at it when Fallsworth manages to drop a chunk of meatloaf off the edge of his knife and onto the edge of the tray. It tips the thing up just enough to make an awful metallic racket, before sliding wetly onto the table with a soft, sloppy noise, and congealing there.  
Silence falls.

Bucky finally looks down, then around at the painfully innocent faces that surround him. Most of them are pointedly looking the other way. He rolls his eyes.  
"You guys are morons." he says, but he doesn't look mad.  
He either doesn't notice or has given up on caring, when his potatoes spontaneously double again the next time his back is turned.

* * *

_**A/N: I really enjoyed writing this last bit. Bucky getting spoiled and loved makes me happy :)**_


	41. Chapter 41

_**A/N: We've all had nights like this...**_

_**This is another one that I was getting tired of re-reading. It's another very delicate, picky chapter. Let me know if you spot typos.**_

* * *

_**Plot Interlude #2**_

_**Later that night:**_

* * *

The colonel settles himself heavily at his desk and thumbs open the file folder that's still sitting where he left it this morning. Two personnel photos are neatly paper-clipped, one above the other, along the side of the page.  
One is a skinny, sickly looking blonde head, settled over bony shoulders, and staring challengingly into the camera.  
The other is a handsome young man with dark, neatly-done hair and a barely contained smirk.  
He stares at them for a few moments in the semi-darkness, then rubs wearily at his eyes, and gets up and pours himself a couple of fingers of whiskey from the bottle in his desk.  
He's grateful that his subordinates are gone for the night. He's not feeling very conversational right now, and frankly they all already think he's a mean old asshole. He spends enough time proving them right as it is.

He should probably turn in too, they've got a busy day in the morning…  
He stands at the corner of the desk instead, then turns and walks to the door. Walks back.  
He paces the small space for a few minutes, thoughts scattering like startled birds, then sits down and stares at the photos again.

He hadn't wanted to lean on Barnes like that. He's seen too many kids come back jumping at their own shadows to want to be the bastard that pushes their buttons. It's his job to bring these boys home in one piece, not break them even more.  
It's just… what other choice had he had?

He takes a long drink, grimaces, and sets the glass down.  
He feels tired. Really tired. The day is wearing on him.  
Rogers' photo is staring at him. Accusing him - even if Rogers himself has no idea what he's done. Hopefully never will.  
He wonders what Rogers would do, all hopped up on righteous fury, if Barnes ever did spill the morning's events. He decides he'd rather not dwell on it.

The thing is, he _needs_ Rogers to win this war, dammit. He might not like it, but he _needs _the stupid, reckless bastard.  
He almost likes Rogers. He can respect grit when he sees it. But he can't keep the kid in line, and that's a big problem.

What he was promised was a whole platoon of super-soldiers. Hundreds of Steve Rogerses, only without the damned attitude. What he got was one little smart-ass that is suddenly a real big smart-ass - with a chip on his shoulder and an anti-authoritarian streak a mile-and-a-half wide.  
Kid takes orders like suggestions. Rules are just guidelines. If he wants to do something he wasn't told to do, he just does it. That's no way for a soldier to behave, but there's only so much the colonel can do about it.  
You come down on Rogers from the top and he just digs his heels in more. Gets that stubborn look in his eye, smiles like he's being the most obliging little shit in existence, and come hell or high-water he'll push back.  
Disciplining a man like that is a nightmare.

Phillips has got a weapon that could level all of Nazi Germany, but he can't control it worth a good goddamn, and that's dangerous for everybody involved. You don't just hope the gun is pointed the right direction - you aim it properly or you don't shoot.  
A weapon you can't control is one you can't use.  
He can't afford not to use Rogers. Not with the war as messy as it's been. That's why he had to learn to aim the stubborn bastard somehow.

He knows, following several days of reading and following up, and pulling records, and making late-night phone-calls back to Washington, that fate has dropped the best aiming mechanism in this world right into the middle of his camp. Hand delivered by Rogers himself, ironically.  
Rogers' best friend. His 'family'.  
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes -'Bucky' to his friends- may be the one man on this earth who stands a chance of keeping Captain America in line and on task.  
And with that bastardized serum in his veins, the poor sap might even stand a chance of surviving to see the end of this mess.

Agent Carter helps in corralling Rogers, he'll admit. She's a good agent, but he can see her crush printed all over her face. Hell, she all but admitted it to him not five minutes before Rogers came back, seemingly from the dead. Carter has barely even tried to keep it quiet since. Like she's daring him to say something.  
He won't, as long as she isn't causing him more problems.  
Carter helps and he's not going to jeopardize that... but she's harder to predict, and she can only do so much.  
...And he knows full well that she'd spit in his face if he told her to do something she had real objections to.  
Carter takes orders, but only to a point. She's like Rogers that way.

Barnes on the other hand… Barnes can be pushed, molded... especially right now. Barnes has everything they need. He's got the history, he's got the insight, and he's got the motivation to keep his pal on a short leash.  
If he won't do it for Uncle Sam and the folks at home, he'll sure as hell do it for Rogers' own sake. Phillips has made sure of that.

The colonel already knows Rogers would do anything for this man. Anything at all.  
He's seen it in action.  
And he now knows, from reading Barnes' file and watching his behavior, that it goes both ways.

Sgt. Barnes could have easily been on a plane back to New York City within hours of reaching camp. His ticket was all but stamped. But Barnes hasn't asked to go home.  
He's been conscious and lucid, just sitting around on a rickety old infirmary cot, clearly bored and scared out of his mind ...and he hasn't said one word about going home.  
Especially given the fuss Rogers kicked up over being apart from his friend for a matter of days, it hadn't been hard to figure out why not.

He closes the folder, but finds himself staring at the nondescript cover instead. He rubs at the bridge of his nose and drops his hat onto the edge of his desk with a quiet _thump_.

He'd seen a pressure point and he'd used it. God help him, he'd used it.  
He'd gotten what he needed.

And they do need Barnes for this… They do. That's why he did what he did.  
He had to be sure Barnes would cooperate. Would keep his mouth shut and not fire Rogers off in the wrong direction.  
He did what he had to do.

It's just...

Just…  
He's not completely sure how he's going to live with himself now that he has.

You have to do ugly things in times of war, sure... He's done his share of nasty, underhanded, vicious things. You don't get the luxury of playing nice if you want to survive on a battlefield.  
...But he never thought he'd have to dig his boot into the gut of one of his own…

He hadn't wanted to do it this way.  
Not like this.  
If there'd been a better way-

He throws back the rest of his drink and pours out some more. It doesn't make him feel any better.

He feels bad about Barnes.  
Much worse than he does about anything with Rogers, honestly. Hell, he can't say he feels particularly bad about Rogers at all. That kid wanted to be here so bad he'd have done just about anything to get in. Rogers signed up for this. Rogers _volunteered_.  
Barnes didn't volunteer.  
He's seen the records. He knows that now. Belatedly, he wonders if Rogers does.  
He doubts it.

He breathes out a heavy sigh, and sets the glass down, untouched.

And who, of course, has he just kicked right in the metaphorical balls?  
Of course it'd have to be Barnes...the poor fucked up kid, that he left trembling and halfway to pissing himself in an infirmary cot after scaring the living hell out of him to make a point.  
He'd known what to do to terrify the bejesus out of that boy, and he'd done it with a vengeance. He'd made the kid sweat bullets.

And Barnes had somehow still scraped up the gumption to look him right in the eyes at the end of it. His stomach sours to remember the fire that just wouldn't fade in that kid's tired face.

That'd been the twist of the knife that's been haunting him ever since. Barnes knew what he was walking into. What he'd just agreed to do.  
And he'd looked it right in the face and said 'sure, why not?'.  
The colonel can't decide if that's admirable or tragic. … Maybe it's both.

Either way, it's done.  
...He'd needed to make an impression. And he had...

He stares at the amber liquid in his glass. Then he picks it up and drains it all in one go.

Yeah, he can admit when he's being a bastard.  
He is. He can see that. He knew it when it was happening.  
But the thing is, he's got responsibilities.  
He's got a lot of lives in his hands right now, and the longer this war goes on, the more of those lives get lost. Most of them needlessly.

He's an old man, as soldiers go. He's seen two wars try to devour the entire world, and in quick succession at that.  
He'd thought the last Great War was the last one there would ever be.  
He'd been mistaken.

He can't afford to let on, but he's so tired of being at war. So tired of watching these unsuspecting boys get funneled in and watching dead men, walking or not, come out the other side.

He's certain there will only be more if they keep going this way. He just doesn't see an end to it anymore. He's so sick and tired of the bullshit. This constant fighting, killing, destruction. The consuming wars that ravage the globe.  
It's only getting worse with time.  
Soon, there will be nothing left to fight over.

He used to live for the rush of battle…  
Now he's a weary old soldier who's sick and tired of war.  
He could almost laugh at that.  
Who isn't?

Colonel Chester Phillips never opted to go sit at a desk and command men via telegrams and telephones - though he could have. He's earned it, if he wanted to.  
...No, he stayed out in the field... and he's seen a lot of good men die out here.  
He's buried many a subordinate with his own two hands, because there was nobody else left to do it and he couldn't bear to just leave them lying there in the dirt.

Most of his people nowadays think he's a crusty, hard-hearted, old fucker. That he doesn't feel anything anymore; just does whatever Uncle Sam sends down the pipeline and goes on about his life. The problem is, he does feel. Oh he _does._ He feels everything alright. He just can't do anything about it. Feeling doesn't do anyone any good. He got that message ages ago, loud and clear.  
He feels every single death he's ever had to notify somebody for. He feels the ones where there's nobody to notify even more. It's never stopped men from dying.  
He's written form letters to so many widows and orphans, that he wonders if there are any intact families _left_ out there sometimes.

He's so tired of dictating his condolences for the hundreds of wasted lives.  
It's got to end.

He doesn't have to like the methods, but he didn't get to be where he is by making the easy decisions...

Two soldiers to save thousands? Those are odds he's got to take. He can't do otherwise.  
If he's got to use Barnes and Rogers as sacrificial lambs to bring the rest of these boys home safe...? Then by god, that's what he's going to do.

… Even if it makes him not sleep so well at night.

* * *

_**A/N: I very nearly wrote this as a super long and rambling Author's Notes explanation... but then I realized… why don't I just **_show _**instead of tell?  
**__**So that's what I did.**_

_**I always sort of wondered, watching the movie, what goes through Phillips' head during all of this craziness? We see SOME of it, but he's very much a background character.  
**__**This is a man who's been through two World Wars now, and he probably served in both extensively. These wars were on a nearly unprecedented scale of destruction and violence for that time. And there were two of them practically back to back. What does that do to a person?  
**__**He'd have to be getting pretty disillusioned.**_

_**This is what I came up with.**_

_-Sometimes, when life gets messy and complicated and confusing... the answers you come up with aren't even right or wrong. They're just answers. You apply them as well as you can, and you hope for the best.-_


	42. Chapter 42

_**A/N: Wow this chapter got away from me. It was originally written as about 3 paragraphs. … And then…**_

_**(Slow updates are slow.)**_

* * *

"Whatever they've told you... you don't have to come to London with the unit, Sergeant."

Agent Carter is leaned in close to his ear. He's proud that he doesn't startle, though it's a very near thing. Steve is across the mess talking to Jones and a couple of Jones' buddies - just distracted enough not to be paying attention to what's going on in this (formerly) quiet corner of the tent. The others all got called out for duty 20 minutes ago. He seems to be one of the few with nothing better to do than sit and graze on the remains of a stale slice of bread until Steve is ready to go back to their tent.  
… Or, he supposes, get cornered by the one woman in this camp that could whip his ass with one hand behind her back. He's not scared of her exactly... but he recognizes a tough woman when he sees one. His ma and Mrs. Rogers both knew how to put the fear of god into him as a kid, and he's never forgotten.  
This Carter dame's sharp, he'll give her that. He hadn't even realized she was sliding onto the bench beside him until she was in spitting distance.

"Pretty sure I do, ma'am." he replies when he's sure his voice won't waver, just as quietly. He shoots her a calculating sidelong look. What's she playing at here? Trying to see if he'll spill so she can tell Phillips? Spying for Steve?

"If I may be blunt, Sergeant Barnes: you've been tortured. Rather intensely as I recall - the details of which you have repeatedly recounted to us." Carter says calmly, her posture completely casual, as if they were chatting over tea. " You are the only surviving man in your immediate family. You meet any and all requirements for honorable discharge." She pauses a moment to study him. Her voice is softer when she continues. "You can go home if you like, Sergeant. You only have to ask."

He lets the weight of that settle over him. He's not naive enough to think the army wouldn't bend the rules to keep him where they want him… but he could probably kick up enough fuss to get out if he wanted to push it. Thing is, he doesn't. Not bad enough to risk the potential consequences...

"Y'can call me Bucky, ma'am - I ain't on duty right now. And I ain't goin' home, thanks." He doesn't bother to specify 'right now' for that part. Let her take whatever meaning she likes. He stopped believing he'd ever see Brooklyn again when his unit was captured. He's no more convinced of it now. Whatever assurances he's been offered, every minute he's alive and not strapped to that table still feels like borrowed time. He wonders how long it takes for that to go away.  
Maybe it never does.  
He glances at the back of Steve's head, and knows her eyes are following his. He looks away sharply. "C'n still serve just fine, if that's what you're worried about."

She ignores his comment neatly.  
"He really is much tougher than you give him credit for." Carter's crimson lips quirk upward at the corners. She takes just a moment longer to pull her eyes away from Steve. "Even before the serum, he held his own remarkably well, in spite of his rather absurdly difficult circumstances." Bucky can feel her watching him, like she's waiting for an opening. "I understand you two have history, but there's hardly need for you to remain just to look after-"

"Look, _ma'am_." Bucky swivels his head to face her. He hears the bite in his tone, but he doesn't particularly care. He used up all his 'getting shit on by officers' patience this morning. He's done. No matter what everybody around here seems to think, _nobody_ tells him his business with Steve. There's nobody got the right.  
"I've known that guy since he was _six years old_. He'd punch out God himself if he was pissed off enough. Got no sense of proportion at all." Bucky grumbles, shaking his head. "He hasn't known how to stay outta trouble since the day he was born."  
The first time he'd seen Steve, blazing with righteous fury, marching up to five guys that had to be easily triple his size apiece, that was when Bucky'd been sure Steve was going to die before he hit puberty.  
It hadn't really gotten any better from there.  
"He need's watchin' out for, alright - even if he _is _the size of'a bus now." He looks away and down, faltering for a moment. "Kid'll always need somebody watchin' his back."

"Does it have to be you?" She doesn't seem offended. "That is what soldiers do, is it not? Watch out for one another?"

He snorts, taking a long sip from the water glass in front of him. He wishes it were something stronger, but they don't give out booze at the mess. Damn shame.  
It's almost hilarious, the idea of some average joe keeping up with this ridiculous super-Steve. If anything about this mess were funny, he'd be in stitches. Honestly, the idea of _anybody_ keeping Steve in line, even when he was pint-sized? Completely laughable.  
Steve doesn't listen to anybody. He just barely listened to his ma, and he only listens to Bucky when he feels like it, or Bucky strong-arms him with every trick he's ever learned to get through that thick little skull. ...And Carter thinks some Joe Army can keep Steve's stupid, stubborn, wanna-be-hero ass in one piece?  
_Right. That's adorable.  
_Bucky's had 20-something years to practice reigning in the little spitfire, and he's still only able to manage it about half the time. And that includes all the years when he could just chuck Steve over one shoulder and run for it, if he had to.

"What are you, tryin' to get rid of me?" He turns to look at her directly now. Her face is giving nothing away, though her eyes dart to Steve again briefly before settling on him. She seems to be gauging how long before he comes back.

"I'm trying to look out for you both, if you must know." She raises an immaculate eyebrow at him, and it's the first real hint of irritation he's seen her show yet. "I know you want to keep him safe, Barnes, as do I… Rogers inspires that in people. He's a good man. But he is _also_ a soldier now. One who's been deathly concerned about the wellbeing of his best friend for some time, and who will take absolutely foolish risks for that man's sake." Carter's eyes are uncomfortably knowing and intent. He refuses to meet them. He's played that game once already today, and he's not gonna come apart in the mess, thanks. "I'm not so sure you're protecting him by placing yourself in further danger."  
_I'm not so sure you got any right to lecture me about puttin' people in danger, lady_ he thinks mutinously.  
"-And you, if I may be frank, really ought to be recuperating somewhere quiet."

Bucky groans inwardly.  
"_Look_ ma'am-"

"I've seen your medical files, Barnes." She interrupts smoothly, not even raising her voice. He notices her neatly sidestepping his given name again, though. Apparently even the high and mighty Agent Carter can be pissy and childish if she puts her mind to it. Who'd've thought?  
"I've read your interview records, so believe me: I'm quite well versed in your experiences while captured. I've also spoken to Colonel Phillips regarding your welfare, and quite honestly we don't agree." Bucky's not surprised to hear that. "You were traumatized, severely. It is entirely against your best interests to return to duty, Barnes. I was quite explicitly instructed not to bring any of this up to you, but it must be said, so here we are." She steeples her fingers in front of her.  
"I was a nurse before I became an agent, and a damned fine one at that. Frankly, your health concerns me. Your body's healing is quite impressive, but what of your mental health?"

That remark hits a little close to home. He levels an icy glare in her direction, aborting a move to rise before it really gets started. He has the presence of mind not to try and raise a hand to a lady, especially not one who thoroughly outranks him. Not even if it'd be a fair fight.  
"You callin' me a loon, _Ms. _Carter?" He hisses instead.

"I'm _asking_," she says pointedly, "if you're being honest with yourself about what's best for either of you." Her eyes cut away to Steve's back for half a second - who has yet to notice the conversation that's slowly growing more and more heated, going on behind him- but they return to his face an instant later. "I'm implying nothing against your intellect, nor your capabilities as a soldier, Barnes. That you are still capable of human interaction at all after what you have faced is a marvel in itself, and that speaks of great fortitude more than anything. ...I am however stating that weeks of intensive torture do not simply brush away like so much dried mud." She stares him down for a few moments as if waiting for a reaction, and he can see the suppressed irritation mixing with a deep, honest worry in her dark eyes. He turns his gaze down into the table-top to avoid her, only glancing up out of the corner of one eye when the silence stretches a little too long.

Finally, something shifts, the faintest hiss of a frustrated sigh, though her expression and her posture remain rigidly composed. She's had it with him, apparently. _Good_, he thinks.  
She squares her shoulders near imperceptibly.  
"I won't raise the issue again, Barnes… I just ask that you give it some serious thought." Her eyes cut back to Steve, who looks like he may be wrapping up, before returning to his face. "… For both your sakes."

"I know what I'm doin', Agent Carter." Bucky tells her gruffly, forcing his voice not to snarl and hating the way his shoulders hunch outside of his control. He probably looks like a sulky teenager. "I appreciate the _concern_, or... whatever this is… but I know what I'm doin' and I ain't leavin'."

Agent Carter just purses her lips.  
"If you say so." She replies stiffly, then stands and walks briskly out of the mess.

* * *

"What was that?" He nearly jumps when Steve suddenly appears at his shoulder a few moments later. Bucky schools his face and forces his shoulders to loosen before he turns around. Steve is studying him. "You two arguing already?"  
Steve's got that pensive crease between his eyebrows, the one that means he's worried and thinks he's doing a great job of hiding it. Steve always was a shitty liar.

Bucky makes himself grin. "Nah, just didn't think much'a her fancy English sports." he lies, hating how easy it is. "An' finer points'a baseball didn't go over."  
That Steve's in deep for this Carter lady hasn't escaped his notice, and he's not about to get in the middle of that. He won't make Steve choose between his best friend and his girlfriend... and he's not entirely sure he wants to know which one the kid would pick if he did…  
"Agent Carter's not much of a Dodger's fan, turns out."

Steve just shrugs, a sarcastic little smirk edging onto his face as he settles back onto the bench again. He turns and looks dreamily after Carter, though she's no longer in sight. "Nobody's perfect, Buck."

Bucky just rolls his eyes and gives Steve a half-hearted shove in the shoulder, stuffing the rest of his bread into his mouth in one bite.  
He'd always said somebody, somewhere, would finally see puny Steve Rogers for what he was one of these days. Some girl would give him a chance and once she did, she'd be head over heels for the little pain in the ass … Of course, Bucky hadn't expected it to go quite like this, but when had they ever done things the easy way?  
Maybe he'll even get to be Steve's best man after this shitstorm's over….

* * *

Though they pass each other now and then around the camp; true to her word, Agent Carter never mentions the conversation again.

* * *

_**-End of Plot Interlude-**_


	43. Chapter 43

_**A/N: Whew, it's been a while since this updated. Real life has been eating a lot of my time, and then there was a very sudden death in the family last week. That ended up disrupting my classes, which means I will have a little more time to update between now and Thanksgiving.**_

_**3 chapter update for today.**_

* * *

There's a new cot with a fresh bedroll laid on it, waiting when they get back. Someone in supply has clearly gotten wind of their new sleeping arrangement. Bucky glances at the new bedding appraisingly for a few seconds, stopping in the doorway and effectively blocking Steve's entrance at the tent's flap. He turns and looks back over his shoulder.  
"Hey Steve, you got anything personal goin' on with that bedroll of yours?"

Steve blinks at him. "No, it's just- ...wait why?"

"Good."  
Bucky trots over and flops down right in the middle of Steve's cot. The bedding is months old and reeks, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.  
They weren't always good about being on top of the washing back home, and everything in the Army seems to smell somewhere between 'dear god, kill me now' and 'ugh, that's disgusting'. You sort of get used to your own stench after a while.  
"I'll take this'n then." Bucky announces lightly, bouncing slightly as the cot creaks beneath him. He might be purposely avoiding looking directly at Steve.  
"You got the fresh one, kiddo. S'all yours. Nice an' clean and everything." He waves vaguely at the newer cot as if utterly disinterested in it, before crossing his hands behind his head and making himself comfortable. "Gotta enjoy the little things in life, and all that shit."

Steve stands staring at him, appalled.  
"_James Buchanan Barnes_, you get out of my filthy, gross-ass bed and take your fucking cot!" Steve's aware he looks like his mother always did when she scolded one of them; hands on his hips, forehead crinkled. He's even using Bucky's full name. Jeesus…

Bucky picks his head up, studies Steve's posture and cracks up. He lays his head back down, still chuckling.  
"Nope, I'm good right here."

"Buck-"

"Steve, you wanna know somethin?"

Steve shakes his head. He knows a diversion when he hears one, but he decides to play along. He crosses his arms with a resigned sigh, deciding he's channeled his mother enough for one night.  
"What, Buck?"

"Last time I saw you, before the shit hit the fan, you came up to my armpit. Barely broke 100 pounds on a _good_ day, with rocks in yer pockets. I could'a carried your ass around New York with one arm if I had to."

Steve blinks at him. Yeah, he's aware of this. … So what?

Bucky sighs, still not looking at him.  
"I used'ta take care of you, kid. I'm glad you can breathe now and all, but I had a job keepin' your ass outta the fire and I can't really do it anymore. You don' need me like you used to…" He pauses heavily. "An' that's great… but..."

Steve just stands there, a bit gobsmacked. He feels like he should say something… but what exactly that should be eludes him. They've never really talked openly about the way Bucky takes care of him. Steve because he's always been too proud to admit he needed the help, and Bucky because he's respected that pride, stupid as it is.  
Bucky's off again before Steve can find the words to assure him that that is far from true. They could've made him twice as big; three hundred times as strong. It wouldn't make any difference. Steve will always need Bucky beside him. Always.

There's a soft creak from the cot as Bucky shifts restlessly on it.  
"Look, I can't do much for ya these days, pal, not with you bein' the size of a fuckin' house... so just… lemme have this." Bucky rolls onto his side and looks Steve right in the face. "I don't have that much left to remind me I ain't dead. Nothin's the same as it was when I shipped out... Everythin' changed, seems like, while I was in there. S'all flipped upside down, and I'm still all turned around and-" Bucky pauses; flicks his eyes away, then back. He falls silent, apparently hunting for his words.  
This is more weakness, more struggle, than he's ever admitted to having in his life. Steve would know; he's been there for almost all of it.  
If Bucky casually mentions that his arm hurts, he probably broke it in three places. If he says he feels a little ragged, it's usually code for 'I haven't slept in four days'. When Bucky says he's a little mixed up, he means he's busted - utterly lost and adrift. Steve knows his friend's secret language by heart.

Bucky is watching him. He's got to know that Steve understands exactly what he's telling him, because he swallows hard, but he doesn't drop his eyes again.  
"Just let me have this, ok?"

And how the hell is Steve supposed to argue with _that_? He sits down hard on the edge of the cot that was supposed to be Bucky's, and the frame squeaks in angry protest.

"Yeah, ok. If you're gonna put it like that." He huffs out a small breath and deflates a little. "You got it..."


	44. Chapter 44

It's half an hour later, when they're both about to turn in, that Steve remembers. He rolls onto his side in the dark, hearing the cot creaking mutinously beneath him. Nothing sounds _quite_ ready to break, so he decides to ignore it.  
"Hey, Buck?"

There's a half-hearted groan, that's probably largely for show, before Bucky rolls over to face him.  
"What, kid?"

_I do need you, you know_, he almost says. The words get stuck in his throat.  
"You… are you ok?" comes out instead. He hurries on before whatever denial Bucky's about to make can interrupt him. "And I mean, like, _honestly_ ok, -and don't fuckin' lie to me, 'cause I'll know." He thinks he hears Bucky snort at that, but chooses to ignore it. "… Because you don't sound like you are, and… I don't... when I thought I'd never see you again… I was..." He swallows hard in the dark, staring up at the tent ceiling. "I can't- Look, I just... I wanna make sure you're alright, pal, s'all. ...You're my family. Y'know that, right?"

Bucky's face is half buried in the grubby pillow and for a moment Steve thinks he's dozed off. It doesn't seem like he's going to answer.  
Then Bucky shifts, rolling onto his back and stares up too.  
"As ok as I'm gonna get." he says quietly, almost a sigh. Buck sounds exhausted. "S'the best I can do, Steve-o… M'sorry." His head rolls to one side to look across the gap of floor between them, and Steve shifts to meet his gaze.

Steve thinks of a million things he wants to say. To ask. He settles on an offer instead.  
"If there's anything you need, Buck-" he whispers earnestly into the dark, feeling like he's 13 again, " _Anything_ \- I mean it- You tell me and I'll help ya out. Whatever you need."

Bucky seems to consider this for a second before turning his eyes up into the dark again.  
"Just don't do anything stupid, kid. That's what I need ya to do. No more crazy shit, s'gonna get you killed. Ok?"

The silence that stretches between them is too long, and says everything that Steve can't. He can practically hear the disappointment and the utter lack of surprise, when Bucky rolls away to face the tent wall, and tugs the blanket up around his ears.  
After a long moment, he tips his head back over his shoulder.  
"G'night Steve." He sounds flat and tired.

"...Night, Bucky."  
From then on, all he can see is the lump under the blankets that is Bucky's back and hunched shoulders. His friend doesn't turn to face him again all night.

Silence reigns.  
Bucky doesn't cry out in his sleep, doesn't whimper, doesn't shake. He just lies there, quietly… breathing.  
At least the night terrors seem to have abated…  
There's that.

Steve lies awake a long time, rolling Bucky's words over and over in his mind. He feels absolutely awful. If he could do it, he would.. Bucky rarely asks for anything, and he'd happily give him whatever he asked for at this point, without hesitation… but there are so _many_ people depending on Steve now. It's just not his decision to make anymore.

* * *

Bucky has long since drifted off across from him by the time Steve finally turns over and closes his eyes.  
They open again a few moments later.  
He blinks into the darkness. It feels oddly silent. Much too still. It takes him a second to put his finger on why.

He rolls over again to stare at Bucky's back. Bucky's still lying there facing the tent wall. What must be shoulders are moving up and down beneath the blanket, steady and even.  
Buck's asleep alright, but-

He's damned near silent.

Bucky always used to snore before. Ever since they were little. It was loud, a little grating, and annoying… but it was familiar. It felt like home. Steve is surprised at how much he feels the sudden lack.  
Bucky seems to have stopped doing it sometime after that first night in the truck. Steve doesn't know when or why.

He closes his eyes and huddles in on himself, trying to be small again; like he can will things back to the way they used to be if he just tries hard enough - and feels that little bit more adrift in the world. His eyes sting, but he just squeezes them shut a little tighter and refuses to let out the prickling frustration that's burning inside him.

It's like Bucky said… the little things in life.  
You'd be amazed what you miss when it's gone.


	45. Chapter 45

The night terrors haven't abated, apparently. They've just gone stealth.

He wakes up near dawn, not sure what woke him, listening for a moment before he hears it again. The soft whistling noise, like air escaping a balloon, coming from across the tent. It's not a snore… he's not sure what it is.

Suddenly uneasy, he turns to look at Bucky, who's now lying on his back. Bucky's eyes are closed, but the lids are fluttering like restless wings, and upon closer examination, the fingers tangled in the edges of the blanket are white-knuckled and shaking. His chest is going up and down a little faster than it probably should be, and his ratty shirt is damp and clinging. The strangled sound is coming from somewhere low in the back of Bucky's throat.  
He can't tell if Bucky's even aware he's making it.

"Buck…?" He sits up on his elbows. The sound stutters for an instant, but Bucky doesn't stir.  
Steve slowly pushes his blanket away and swings his feet down to the ground.  
"Bucky, are you ok, pal?" Now that he's standing he can see his friend is twitching -just the tiniest bit- every so often.

He knows he shouldn't wake Bucky abruptly. He knows that. ...But he's not sure if Bucky's actually breathing at this point. It doesn't seem like he's getting enough air, and Steve knows intimately how terrifying that is.  
...And instinct is screaming in his ear that everything about this is very, very wrong.

He reaches out, tentative and careful.  
"Buck?"  
Steve's fingers have barely brushed his wrist when Bucky shoots straight up like someone has yanked him by the sternum, wheezing out a strangled cry, his eyes wide and darting. He's clearly disoriented; sucking in an enormous gasping breath, then coughing when he starts to choke on it. He doubles over until Steve's afraid he'll topple right off of the cot; coughing and gasping like he's drowning, like he can't possibly get enough air into his lungs.

Steve is scared. Petrified. This isn't supposed to happen. Bucky's supposed to be ok now. _He's supposed to be ok._

"Buck, what's wrong?" Steve can't help the way his voice catches. He hasn't seen Bucky this bad since right after the factory went up; right after he'd found his best friend and dragged him out of HYDRA's prison by the skin of their teeth. Steve had attributed Bucky's bad state to shock and the rawness of his ordeal at the time. Now he's not so sure.

The pale blue eyes that finally turn to him are nakedly frightened. He can see any remaining resolve in them crumbling. Bucky just shakes his head, white-faced and trembling, and collapses heavily into Steve's sturdy shoulder. He leans there bonelessly for a long time, shuddering and heaving short, shallow breaths that alternate with jagged coughing now and again.  
Steve clutches helplessly at the back of his friend's head; one thick arm winding around Bucky's shoulders, trying to hold him together against whatever is still lurking inside his head and tearing him apart. He can feel Bucky's heart rabbiting against his ribs over the full-body tremor that's shimmying up and down his friend's frame.

It's several minutes before Bucky finally calms down enough to catch his breath, and he won't talk about it.

"S'nothin' " he says quietly, when he can find his voice; pulling back, though he's still white as a sheet. "Just … just happens sometimes… S'nothin'..."

"Bucky, that wasn't 'nothin'!" Steve is verging on panic himself. He doesn't know what to do and that scares him more than anything he's faced yet. He can't fight this thing. He doesn't know how.

Steve knows sickness intimately. He knows the wet hacking cough of pneumonia. He knows the merciless vice-like squeeze of asthma, crushing the breath out of your lungs. He _knows_ what it feels like to have your body betray you.  
He knows all too well what it is to be injured. Has had his teeth pounded in, his ribs busted half a dozen times. His nose still has a permanent hook from the time he got it smashed in grade-school. He knows from hard-won experience how to treat most any scrape or bruise a guy could acquire in a street-fight. He's familiar with broken bones and bloody knuckles. But this… This is new to him. That any ailment _could_ be alien to his experience, after the childhood he endured... is frightening.  
There aren't any protocols for this internal hurt. No precedent. This isn't nursing a fever or soothing a cold. This isn't setting a bone or icing a bruise. Steve's got no idea how to protect his friend from whatever it is that's hurting him, and that is _terrifying_.

"For god's sake... what-" he starts, but Bucky interrupts like he hasn't heard a word.

"Forget it, Steve… Sorry I woke y'up…" Bucky shivers, arms wrapped tightly around his own ribs. His voice is flat and clearly shaken. He still sounds a little breathless. "Don't worry about it."

"Bucky! This-" Steve looks at his friend and hesitates. Bucky's barely keeping what little composure he's regained wrapped around himself like a ragged cloak. He's a millimeter from losing it again and he doesn't want an audience for that. Steve's been on the other side of that feeling more than once... When you're just this side of coming apart at the seams but you're not going to let anyone see. … Not even your best friend.

He should pursue this. He knows he should…  
He just… can't.  
He can't rub salt in Bucky's wounds, not even if it might help Buck in the long run. He won't be that guy. He's never been able to stand to see Bucky suffer, and that hasn't changed. Call it a weakness, but he just can't do it.

Now's really not the time, he tells himself firmly… not with his friend held together by scraps. They'll discuss it later, he promises himself. In depth.  
But later.

So he lets it drop - but he worries about it, all right.  
He spends the rest of the day thinking of little else.


	46. Chapter 46

_**A/N: This chapter was written a while ago, but I wasn't quite happy with it. I'm still not 100%, but I want to get the story moving again while I have time to update, so it goes up as is for now. **_

_**Also- PROGRESS! We're finally past the army camp!**_

* * *

Their arrival in London is predictably grey and wet. Not surprisingly, Peggy and Fallsworth both seem right at home, gushing about how good it is to be back on their home soil... but Steve finds it kind of dreary. He supposes he should just be glad he doesn't have the treacherous lungs he was born with or aching beginnings of arthritis anymore. Weather like this would've had him in fits at this time last year.

Bucky, with a couple of other rescued prisoners that Steve only sort-of recognizes, end up setting off to explore on their own, shortly after arrival. He's not sure how they got permission, but given everything Buck's been through lately maybe the higher-ups just finally felt sorry for the poor guy. Either way, Bucky seems pretty eager to get going, so Steve just smiles and makes Bucky agree to put in a good word with the local girls for him. Peggy rolls her eyes at him for that.

Bucky promises lightly that they'll all meet up at a pub later that night and he'll do his level best to get Steve good and plastered in a real celebration of his promotion to Captain. Seeing Bucky smiling, teasing, laughing...the whole thing takes some of the edge off of Steve's nerves. Bucky almost seems like himself again, barely looks haunted at all, and Steve tells himself for the thousandth time that Buck will be ok. He's still just rattled, and with time he'll be fine.  
They still haven't talked about Bucky's scare the other day, though Steve keeps promising himself that he will. The time has never felt quite right to bring it up and he'd _swear_ Bucky's got a sixth sense for when he's trying to feel out an opportunity. The guy always manages to just up and vanish anytime Steve's finally ready to have it out.  
Bucky looks better, though. He does… Bucky's probably fine.  
He's going to be ok.  
...Maybe if he repeats it enough, it'll start being true.

Steve watches them go wistfully.  
Exploring sounds a lot better than what he'll be doing all day, and he's still a little uneasy about letting his best friend out of his sight after what happened the _last_ time he did.  
_Quit bein' such a mother hen, y'little twit_. he hears Bucky's voice grumble in his head, and that draws a reluctant smile out of him.  
He says nothing, but sketches a little salute when Bucky turns and grins at him before vanishing up the stairs toward the street, his escorts in tow.

Steve stands for a long moment as the door swing shut behind them and wishes for probably the 20th time that he were going with them... But he's already ducking a medal ceremony that he could care less about, just to be _here_ so he can provide intel for the allies. They're not too likely to let him go play hooky with his friends instead of doing his damned job.  
Besides, if he kicks up a fuss they may try to drag Bucky and the others back to pump _them _for information instead, and that crew deserves some R&amp;R after everything they've been through. Steve will just have to suck it up and take one for the team...

When the war is over, Steve promises himself idly, they'll go on vacation. Just him and Buck. Maybe Peggy, if he she wants to come along. They'll travel the whole country just the way they always talked about doing someday - when they had money. Maybe they'll even go see the Grand Canyon… Bucky's always wanted to go there.  
He smiles, imagining it. Bucky plays cool so well, but he's a sucker for natural beauty. Always has been. He'd had a habit of collecting old calendar pages and Steve's sketches, pinning up pretty landscapes over his bed at home. Buck'd go nuts for canyons and clear skies as far as the eye can see. He'd be a kid in a candy-store. And he'd smile -really smile- again...  
This whole mess will be just a bad dream and nothing more.  
Steve can't wait.

For now, though, it's all damp stone walls and staring at maps, carefully placing marker pins where there are HYDRA bases. It's telling a room full of stern faces everything that could possibly be relevant; and ignoring the couple of cheap shots that one of the generals makes about his 'fighting tights'.  
It's uncomfortable public speaking and it's boring as hell, but it beats getting shot at.  
He marshals his wandering thoughts, buckles down, and gives them everything he's got.

He distantly hopes the others are having more fun than he is, at least.  
Somebody ought to be.


	47. Chapter 47

_**Plot Interlude #3**_

* * *

"Just have a seat there and remove your shirt please."

Bucky quietly does as he's told, though his skin crawls whenever a gloved hand touches his skin. Someone takes the shirt from his hands and he's vaguely aware that it's been neatly folded on a table by the door. He's too distracted to pay much attention.  
He has to keep reminding himself that this isn't the isolation ward. He doesn't need to break and run as soon as they turn their backs on him. There will be no liquid fire, no electricity. No beatings, no hallucinations. He doesn't need to escape. They're not planning to hurt him.  
It's like a mantra, running over and over in his head.

The doctors here are mercifully not wearing lab-coats, at least. He couldn't stomach that. He still shudders whenever he sees the damned things. The light is warm and bright overhead, but gentle and diffuse. No blinding spotlights, no eerie green glow.  
It's nothing like Zola's lab… but being examined still sets his teeth on edge.  
The bench he's sitting on is padded, and there are no straps anywhere in sight. They're not making any move to restrain him -thank god, and everyone is being careful to make noise so he'll know where they are.

He won't lie, it helps, but it does little to keep the steel out of his spine or cold sweat from forming on the back of his neck. They're trying to help him relax, and he's trying to oblige, but it's so much _harder _than it should be.

...Bucky would even swear there's some kind of perfume in the air. Something floral … Lavender maybe? He'd lay money that it's supposed to be calming. Instead, all it does is make him think of Steve, fragile and pale, in a hospital room with a chipped old vase of the little purple flowers left on his bedside table from some kind nurse. It was the first time Steve got so bad that his ma (and by extension, Bucky) had had no choice but to scrape up whatever money could be spared, begged, or borrowed to send him there… It'd been there or the morgue.  
Between them, they'd managed to scratch together just enough to get Steve through the worst of the fit before the money ran out and Steve had been gently evicted to weather out the rest in his own bed.  
Bucky's family had had to eat a little leaner than usual that week. Their soup was thinner, the ingredients stretched. Everyone was a little hungrier than usual. None of them had complained though. They all liked Steve, and Mrs. Barnes considered him one of her own noisy brood.  
Steve's ma had had nothing but a little watered down broth for close to two weeks, but she had very firmly refused to accept a mouthful of anything Bucky had tried to sneak over from his parents' house. She was very firm that unless it went into Steve's belly he was to take it all back with him, even when she was swaying on her feet.  
_Stubborn to a fault, the whole Rogers line._

Steve had just barely survived that winter, and thinking about it is _anything_ but calming.  
Still... the scent is at least sort of grounding ...and compared to some of the other shit he could be focusing on instead, it's downright pleasant. He chooses to ignore the smell for now. If he complains, they might bring in something worse. He'll take what he knows he can handle, thanks.

The doctors move slowly, announcing procedures a lot more clearly than they ever did when Steve was a patient, and he can tell they're doing their best not to panic him. He appreciates the effort, clumsy as it may be. Appreciates someone at least _trying_, even if he still hates getting fussed over as much as he ever has.  
It really _is_ nice to have someone who isn't Steve treat him gently for a change. To tell him what the fuck they're doing before just laying hands on him. To have people just _ask_ him things without trying to scare the everloving shit out of him to get what they want. (_Fucking Phillips…)  
_They even made one of the orderlies -a slight, kind of paunchy guy with glasses- leave the room, when Bucky balked at coming near him. He'd have sworn the guy was speaking German for a split second, and he'd breathed easier when the man was gone.  
Apparently _somebody_ at least got to read the fuckin' notes about him, because _he_ certainly still hasn't.  
Still, if it keeps this whole shitty experience that much more manageable…  
_Thank god for small favors…_

A cold stethoscope presses against his bare back, tapping upward between his shoulder-blades and listening every now and then.  
"Deep breath in."  
He obliges.  
"Out."  
There's a momentary pause.  
"Interesting."

He tips his head over one shoulder, trying to see what could be so fascinating back there. "One of these days, you folks're gonna have to tell me what it means when you say shit like that."  
Fortunately, the tone comes out joking and light. He'd been half afraid it'd sound like a growl instead. The last thing he needs is to piss off the people who are hovering over him with needles and vials. He'd rather give them every reason to keep handling him nicely instead of smacking him around. He's under no illusions that they couldn't if they really wanted to.

The man with the stethoscope seems to be feeling indulgent as he steps back into view. "Sergeant, you are a smoker are you not?" he asks, pulling the buds out of his ears and coiling the whole thing around his neck.

Bucky nods, skeptical.  
"Yeah. So?"

"So there'd be no way to tell, listening to your lungs. Nor any lingering signs of that pneumonia of yours. You have the lung capacity of an olympic athlete right now, son."

Bucky stares at him, then blinks and whistles through his teeth. He can feel the corners of his lips tug up just a hair in spite of himself.  
"... Ok, yeah… that counts as interestin'..."

The doctor smiles faintly at him.  
"For all the trauma you've experienced, soldier, I'd say you came away with one hell of a consolation prize."

They take endless x-rays and measurements and ask him countless rounds of questions. He plays along.  
When they get out a needle to draw blood, he looks away and lets them, trying not to think about the thin hard metal breaking his skin. He can't shudder, or they'll miss the vein.  
At least these doctors are being gentle about the whole process. If he was still capable of forming scars, he's sure he'd have little puckered circles all up and down his arms from the rough and careless stabs he'd gotten in the isolation ward.

…The unwelcome memory that stirs very nearly does make him shudder, so he focuses on trying to find the source of the floral smell instead. Anything to keep his mind occupied.  
He never does figure out just where it's coming from, but the needle is out and they're wrapping gauze around his elbow before he has a chance to really think much more about it, and the ordeal passes without much fuss.

When it's all over, they don't tell him anything he doesn't already know. Just that he's healthier than he has any right to be, and that there are no signs of any lingering damage. They don't say anything about his nightmares and he pointedly doesn't mention that they haven't gone away. He doesn't know if they're all just avoiding the subject too, given what Carter told him, but he honestly doesn't care.  
He won't risk being discharged as mentally unfit. Steve needs him here. He'll get through it… somehow or other. He's just got to stop jumping at his own shadow.  
… Can't be that hard right?


	48. Chapter 48

_**A/N: Slight delay yesterday, but now on with the show.**_

* * *

They introduce him to Howard Stark as he's finishing getting dressed.  
Bucky spends a good few seconds gaping and staring dumbly at the hand that's held out to him before Howard just reaches out and takes Bucky's instead, like this is completely normal.  
Stark is a solid wall of talk anyway, so it's just as well he can't seem to make his mouth do anything but open and close uselessly, like a beached fish. He'd never get a word in edgewise, even if he could speak.  
Howard Stark is larger than life, a mad genius, and the most unapologetically narcissistic asshole he's ever met.  
Bucky is absolutely starstruck.

Buck's been dreaming in science-fiction since he was 8 years old. Steve has teased him about being a secret egg-head for years, and he's owned it with a vengeance.  
Bucky's a nerd. He's a bookworm. He's not ashamed of that, even if he doesn't advertise it anymore.  
He even used to bribe their harried high-school science teacher, Mr Johanson, with his mama's fresh baked cookies to teach him extra material after school. He kept that up for a couple of years until his dad died and he'd had to get a job in the afternoons instead.  
Bucky had hated spending his nights stacking boxes and sweeping floors instead of reading or screwing around in a lab, but he'd kept food on the table and his sisters in school, that was what mattered.  
He'd always thought that maybe he'd save some money and try going to college when things got better… Maybe he'd even help put Rogers through some art classes, if the stubborn little bastard would accept his help.  
He'd let himself dream for a while, but it'd been the end of his aspirations when the war had erupted soon after. He'd known his number would come up eventually, and it had. College was a distant dream that just kept getting more and more distant. He'd quickly let that dream go.  
He'd never quite been able to shake the feeling that once he shipped out, that'd be it. He'd never come home again. He's still not convinced.

In another life, Bucky could've been a scientist, and a damned good one. He'd always been insanely curious, smart, and observant. Had a great eye for detail and a way with people that would've guaranteed him a cushy gig someplace behind a desk if anyone with any authority had been willing to give him the time of day.  
Instead, he'd spent his time scraping together a bare living and babysitting the stubborn little firecracker with a hero-complex that he'd grown up with; just trying to make it through each day in one piece. They'd survived, at least.

It's funny the way life works sometimes… He's always, _always_, idolized Howard Stark and now that he's impossibly here, face to face with the guy... he can't think of a single thing to say to him. Stark _lives_ everything Bucky ever imagined. This guy is like Santa Claus, Jules Verne, and Clark Gable all squished into one incredible, obnoxious package. He's every 8 year old nerd's wildest dreams come to life.  
Maybe this whole 'torture and return to duty' garbage has a few upsides after all...

"So Captain Rogers tells me you saw my expo in Brooklyn a few months ago, Barnes. Said you're a big fan of my work." Stark is talking more _at_ than _to_ him, but Bucky perks up attentively. "What'd you think? Great stuff huh?"

Bucky blinks, caught off guard. Had that really been just a few months back? Come to think of it, that's also when Steve reached the crowning achievement of stupid in his lifetime of dumb and dangerous stunts. Both of their lives had flipped upside down inside of a year.  
… But he's got to admit, the stuff they'd seen that night… Thinking about it still takes his breath away.

"Yessir." he says honestly, "It was _incredible_-"

"And _that_ was just the kiddie stuff!" Stark interrupts immediately, as he rambles half to himself; already setting off across the lab. "The best stuff I keep for myself-," He glances at the raised eyebrow of a soldier walking past and amends flippantly, "-and Uncle Sam of course. I mean, flying cars are great, but that's just the warm-up!"

Something round, metallic, and shining like liquid mercury is thrust at Bucky's face. "Like this baby! Just finished testing 'em. I bet I can make them even smaller and the boom even bigger with a little more work." Stark tosses it carelessly into the air and catches it neatly before dropping it back into the box it came from. That the thing is apparently a high-powered explosive doesn't appear to bother him much.

It goes on like that for a while. Every so often Howard will pick up a prototype of something and shove it into Bucky's hands, exclaiming about how it's going to revolutionize the world in some fashion or other. Every single one of them is something incredible and exciting and he isn't getting nearly enough time to take them in before Stark is off on the next amazing something or other, still talking 90 miles a minute.  
Bucky's starting to think he died on that table and went to heaven after all.

"That thing you're holding there?" Howard tells him eagerly, indicating a little square of metal and wire that's blinking alternately blue and red. "Barely the size of a shoe and it could level a major city if I pushed the right button." He mimes a huge explosion with a manic grin. Bucky quickly and gingerly puts the thing down. Howard has already moved on.

"Oh and this hunk of crap!" Stark whirls around from another table with what looks like a big rock in one hand. "This stuff's hilarious, feel how light it is!" he crows, shoving it into Bucky's surprised fingers. Bucky nearly drops the stupid thing, startled, but he's shocked at how easy it is to catch it. The rock weighs a whole lot less than he'd have expected it to.

He tosses it carefully from hand to hand. _It's gotta be hollow…  
_"What… what is this?"

"_That_ is vibranium!" Stark is almost bouncing on his heels with excitement. "I have no idea what the hell I'm gonna do with it, but it's amazing stuff! Hard as hell to come by, but oh man, the possibilities... Light as a feather, absorbs vibrations like nobody's business. I hear it polishes up real pretty too. No need to trade style for function here, no sir!" Howard snatches the lump out of his hands again, beaming and tossing it again aside like it's utterly worthless. He's off like a shot, with Bucky trailing, awed, in his wake.  
"I tell ya kid, I am gonna have the very best toys for you boys. Nothin' less than the very best! That's why the army came to _me_!"

An hour or so later, when Bucky arrives to meet Steve, a little dazed and buzzing with enthusiasm, he's still grinning like an idiot. Even if it _is _at a pub that's much too crowded, much too loud, and way too bright for his taste - he's just too damned blown away to care.

Howard Stark called him 'bright'... called him a 'sharp kid'... Said he had great potential, and told him to come down to Stark Industries after the war. _Holy shit_…  
He's gonna work for Howard _fuckin'_ Stark!  
Steve'd never believe it, even if Bucky was allowed to tell him.

When he eventually finds Steve waiting for him by the door, though, reality comes back into play with cruel gusto. That's when he realizes that he should've known it was all too good to be true. Life is never this kind to him.  
Not only is Steve staying in the war- Oh no. He's going Special Ops. Forming his own unit to handle the shit too dangerous for the normal soldiers. Like trying not to get vaporized wasn't hard enough…  
_Just fuckin' wonderful._ he groans to himself. Steve is _determined_ to get killed by the end of this war, apparently.

Bucky feels the familiar weight of his responsibility settle over him again and resigns himself to it. He pushes away the little spike of fear that comes in its wake. He knows better than to let himself daydream anymore. There's no way he's going home from this mess, but it's his job to see that Steve does. He knows better than to forget that by now.  
He puts Stark out of his mind.

Bucky smiles for Steve, because he knows he's supposed to. Tells him to go talk to Monty, Dugan, and the guys. Knows they'll all fall in and answer the call. Can't think of anybody better qualified for the job.  
Then he tries his damnedest to drink himself into a coma while Steve's gone. He's twelve shots of the good stuff in, the bartender is eyeing him, and he's not even halfway to tipsy 20 minutes later.  
_God. Fucking. Dammit._


	49. Chapter 49

_**A/N: I wrote this one quickly to fill in a gap between last chapter and the next that I realized I had left. It may be slightly disjointed as a result.**_

* * *

He never gets the chance to follow through on his promise to get Steve good and drunk. Steve's barely touched the one beer he's ordered so far when Carter shows up again, with her usual unhelpful timing, and gives Steve someplace to be at the asscrack of dawn. She barely even glances in Bucky's direction and he gets the distinct impression that he's unwelcome. Still, he'll be damned if he's going to let anyone else push him around, especially Carter, so he stubbornly sticks close and flirts obnoxiously just to goad her. Carter ignores him completely... which doesn't surprise him as much as it might've if he hadn't spectacularly pissed her off a few weeks back. He can't say the feeling isn't mutual but… that dress really is criminal. Steve certainly picked up a looker, even if she is a terror. If not for her gift for making Bucky incredibly uneasy, he'd be standing at attention all right.

He can't quite decide if it stings his pride to be brushed off like this, as Carter turns on her heel and leaves without ever really acknowledging him; every head in the room swiveling to follow her until she's out of sight.  
He'd realized quick enough that even if he wasn't already on her list, he might as well not even be in the room with the way her and Steve were goo-goo eyeing each other a moment ago. Steve may have it bad for this lady, but she's not lookin' at anybody else either. He doubts either of them were paying attention to _anybody _but each other, and frankly it's nauseating.  
_Good for you kid. Too bad your girlfriend hates me._

"I'm invisible…" Bucky gripes, knowing Steve will eat it up. Might as well let the kid have the spotlight for once.  
Steve, predictably, ribs him a little, and they settle back down to what's left of the evening. Bucky nurses his whiskey and sips it slow. Barely tastes it at this point. He wishes desperately that he could feel something from it, but life's just not fair sometimes. Steve doesn't appear to notice.

Steve says they'll celebrate later, as he stands up to head back. Sometime when things are less hectic. He looks like he really believes that. Bucky just shrugs, hunching over his glass. He'll catch up, he promises. Just wants to squeeze a little more enjoyment out of the night before he's got to get back to work.

Steve tells him to have fun.  
Bucky waits until Steve's out of sight to let his face drop and take another long sip of his booze, savoring what little burn it gives him.

_Fun.  
__Sure._

He'll get right on that.

* * *

**_END OF PLOT INTERLUDE_**


	50. Chapter 50

_**A/N: Left off the note at the end of last chapter, but that was the end of the plot interlude for now. Back to Steve's story, already in progress :D**_

* * *

"They're calling us the 'Howling Commandos'." Steve mutters, sinking down next to the camp fire.

Bucky snorts beside him.  
"Christ, who came up with that? Dugan?"

"Some senator, apparently." Steve sighs, "And we're going to be in a newsreel next week, so we have to keep track of a couple of reporters for a few days." He doesn't bother faking a smile for Bucky. Buck'd see right through it even if he did. Steve not-so-secretly hates cameras, and doesn't much like being the center of attention, for all that he always ends up being thrust there. He knows the reporters will be all over him and he's not looking forward to it.

Bucky hands over a tin mug of sludgy coffee, which Steve accepts gratefully. When he looks up, Bucky's smirking in that lopsided way that never fails to get him into or out of trouble.  
"Always knew you were gonna be famous someday." Bucky says matter-of-factly, slouching down against the pack he's leaning on, to push his feet closer to the fire. "Just kinda figured it'd be for paintin' a masterpiece or somethin', but I knew you'd get there."

"Ugh." Steve mutters articulately, slouching down to match with a huff; though he's really not cold and couldn't care less about the fire. "Fame's a pain in the ass, Buck, trust me. Already had all'a that that I can stomach. People paw all over you and you just have to smile and take it."

Bucky rolls his eyes dramatically.  
"Yeah, must be awful havin' girls line up around the block t'pay ya to kiss 'em. Poor li'l Stevie Rogers. Y'want me to cry for ya?"

"Hey, you'd know better'n me." Steve shrugs, ignoring the dig.  
Bucky glances at him and grins crookedly, waggling his eyebrows like he's just as much the ladies-man that his reputation suggests. Then he makes a face.

Truth is, the ladies have always loved Bucky because he was a gentleman, more than because he's good looking. Much as he talks big in front of the guys, and how he always teases Steve about it, Bucky's honestly not one to mess around.

Bucky's a charmer, sure, and between his million-watt smile and those baby-blues of his, Steve's not denying his pal is a looker too - But much more importantly, Bucky knows how to treat a lady special. He listens to people, reaches out to them. Has a talent for making them feel important. He'd show up for a date with flowers, sweep a girl off her feet, take her out dancing, and have her home by curfew. Parents never failed to approve of him, even if they didn't like him running with that trouble-making Rogers boy all the time.

Bucky had a good reputation in Brooklyn. Not that he wasn't just as rough and rowdy as Steve half the time, but he was a lot better at polishing up after. Bucky unfairly managed to look roguish and tussled when he was filthy from work, and classy and uptown when he wasn't. And he could turn on a dime between brawler and choir boy when the situation called for it. Steve usually just managed to look like a startled puppy that's been caught rummaging in the trash, even when he wasn't sporting a brand new shiner. Bucky has given him no end of shit for that.

It really is funny to watch Buck flip between his usual rough Brooklyn Brat act and his Sunday School manners at the drop of a hat, though, Steve has to admit.

Bucky grew up an army brat. His dad was rough and coarse for all he loved his kids, and it rubbed off on Bucky early on. He's always had a foul mouth, especially when he's mad - but show him an old lady and it's suddenly 'nice weather today, huh, Mrs. Gardner?' and 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am' and his very best behavior. Bucky's always known his mama would skin him alive if he ever came off with half the crude talk he used around Steve in front of most anybody else. So Bucky was simultaneously feared by the neighborhood boys as one who put a quick stop to any fight he entered, and adored by the adults as a polite, well mannered kid who would always hold a door and never forgot to say 'please' or 'thank you'.  
He was so over-the-top gallant and charming with the local girls that it was no surprise to anyone when he was drowning in eager dance partners every weekend.

Steve only went dancing when Bucky dragged him along. He couldn't keep up with all the fast-paced jitterbugging, or even the sweeping waltzes, without getting out of the breath. He couldn't dance, but he could patrol for creeps, at least. Anybody that got fresh in the dance halls answered to Steve. Honestly, he did little to deter them but get himself punched repeatedly, more often than not - but anybody who laid hands on Steve ultimately answered to Bucky. Nobody was very scared of Steve, but _nobody_ much wanted to tangle with Bucky Barnes without at least 3 or 4 guys in reserve. Barnes was big and tough and he fought dirty, especially when he was protecting somebody. Especially if that somebody was Steve.

Steve has always had a reputation for trying to be a white knight, but Bucky is just as bad, if not worse. With an iron-fisted mama and three little sisters to think about at home, Buck has always been more than willing to sock anyone who started trouble with a lady. He might not be as quick to start throwing punches as Steve could be, and a lot of the time could intimidate a bully into behaving just by glaring down at them, but Buck had still started plenty of fights in his time. The difference was that Bucky was able to actually _finish_ what he started.

It hadn't taken all that long for guys to start getting jealous; not when every girl for 20 miles around wanted Bucky Barnes. People whispered, but nobody was brave enough to really start anything - not until they got into highschool, and Bucky started trying to include Steve in ill-advised double-dates. Girls that got invited to go out with Bucky and his best friend were always disappointed when they ended up with Steve, and none of them ever wanted to go out a second time. Bucky ended up asking a different girl to join them every week, and that got people talking again ... but Bucky treated his own girlfriends like queens, and _that_ word got around even more. Before long, girls were all but beating down his door at the slightest whiff that he might be available, and he had a crowd following him at the dance hall anytime he showed up.  
Bucky had reveled in the attention at the time. He was outgoing and thrived on praise as much as anybody. That had unfortunately only made things worse.  
Some folks saw it as preening. As unforgivable arrogance.  
Those folks stirred up trouble.  
A small group of assholes started the rumors that Bucky was a heart-breaker and a run-around cad sometime in the middle of their sophomore year. It spread quickly through the hallways of the school and started making the rounds of the neighborhood streets as well. They'd made up stories about all the girls he'd left crying and even claimed he'd gotten some girl in Indiana knocked up and then left her flat.

Steve had been apoplectic when he heard. He'd nearly broken his hand trying to cave one of the guy's faces in. Hadn't done that much damage when it was said and done, but he'd given it his all just the same.  
Thinking about it even now still makes him bristle a little. As if Steve would've been friends with a guy who'd run around on a nice girl? As if he'd have tolerated that kind of bullshit, even from Bucky?  
He'd certainly launched himself at bigger guys for less.

Of course, since the prisoner's rescue, Bucky hasn't shown much interest in any of the pretty girls they've encountered at all. Where he'd normally be flocked with a crowd of admirers, he seems mostly to be deflecting them. Not even the camp nurses that had fluttered around him in the infirmary and flirted shamelessly in the mess seem to have caught his eye, for all his big talk.

Bucky's been polite to a fault, smiles and compliments like his mama raised him to - but that's about it. He never seems to pursue anybody with any kind of intent, and he hasn't made a single move to take a girl home, though there have been at least a couple of pretty blatant offers that Steve's overheard. That in and of itself is glaringly odd. Buck's never been one to push for what a woman doesn't want to give him… but he's not one to turn down a pretty girl that's offering either. And Steve knows it's been a while since he had the chance.  
He's pretty sure Bucky thinks no one has noticed the shadow that's been hovering over him ever since Azzano. How raw his edges still are. He's been working hard at playing it cool. Steve is painfully aware, though, that he's still not quite… _Bucky_. He knows Bucky like the back of his hand, and he knows when something's off.

At least Bucky's smiling again these days, though. It'd been a while with nothing but stone-faced concentration after London, and Steve had been getting pretty worried. He'll take the smiles, thin as they sometimes are, as a good sign for now. Besides, Bucky'd only try harder to hide his problems if Steve said anything about them.

"Seriously, kid, no comparison." Bucky drawls just then, startling Steve out of his reverie. Buck shifts, lazily nudging at a burnt-out log with his foot and knocking loose a shower of embers. "I had to buy my dates dinner just to get the time'a day. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm a handsome guy. What girl _wouldn't_ want a piece a'me?" He's smirking faintly. "But I ain't...' He waves a hand in the general direction of Steve's… well everything. "That."

Steve raises an eyebrow. Other than Peggy, he hasn't met a woman yet that didn't want a piece of Bucky. He glances down at himself instead of saying so.  
"What, y'mean a giant loser?"

"You sure that last shell hit didn't scramble your brains there, _Captain_?" Bucky teases, chucking a pebble and pinging it neatly off of Steve's canteen with his usual perfect accuracy. He sits up on his elbows to give Steve the full effect of his incredulous face. "D'you miss the part where you're America's sweet-heart, or you need me to get out those stupid fuckin' comicbooks again?"

"Thought nobody was allowed to mention those anymore." Steve finally reluctantly smirks back. "Under penalty of pot-shots, wasn' it?" Bucky makes a face.

Bucky loves comic books in general, but he has a passionate hatred for the Captain America comics. He's still irritated that they decided to include him, but then turned him into a teenaged moron sidekick in ridiculous miniature shorts. He's never said 'gee golly' in his _life_.  
There's a writer back home who's going to be in serious trouble whenever Bucky gets back stateside.  
As it is, Bucky's already threatened the entire team that he'll stop covering them in combat if they mention the damned things one more time. Steve's not entirely sure he's kidding.

"You all aren't. _I'm_ mentionin' 'em, because _you're_ bein' a moron. You're welcome by the way." Bucky informs him, raising his eyebrows. Steve's smirk widens, and Bucky's exaggerated grimace quirks vaguely towards a smile.

"What's this, has hell frozen over? Are we allowed to talk about the books again?" Fallsworth asks, appearing just over Steve's shoulder with a mug in hand. "Because I've noticed that none of the rest of us are includ-" The Brit ducks smoothly to one side, looking very mildly offended, as a pebble sails right past his ear.

Steve suppresses a snicker. Bucky glares half-heartedly at the pair of them.  
"Should be grateful y'ain't in 'em, Monty." he mutters, crossing his arms petulantly. "They'd probably have you in stupid shorts too." He tosses another stone from hand to hand before discarding it. "An' tights."

Fallsworth shrugs and pivots, making a brief show of examining his backside over his own shoulder. "Well I _do_ have the legs for it." he says at length, completely straight-faced.  
Steve just can't keep it back anymore. He collapses laughing, rolling helplessly in the crisp, brittle snow until his hair is entirely frosted with with damp and ice. Bucky just rolls his eyes and goes back to warming his feet.

"How'd I end up stuck with you morons again?" he mutters, suppressing a weak smile and shaking his head.

Fallsworth tisks, settling himself down near the fire. "Jealousy is hardly becoming in an officer, Barnes." he remarks mildly, starting to warm his hands.  
Steve is near hyperventilating, he's laughing so hard. He's honestly trying to stop, but he just can't seem to catch his breath long enough to get a grip. Every time he thinks he's finally just about done, he pictures Monty strutting around in Bucky's comic-book costume, Bucky looking thoroughly scandalized in the background, and that just makes him lose it all over again.

"Just don't roll into the fire, dumbass." Bucky grumbles at him, rolling his eyes again. Steve howls louder.


	51. Chapter 51

_**A/N: Commandos at work**_

* * *

HYDRA is tough, sure, but apparently also stupid. It doesn't seem to matter how many factories they level, the next facility never sees them coming.

* * *

Something explodes behind him and Steve is pretty sure he can hear Dernier's distinctive slightly manic chuckle, as a wave of heat and force sweeps over them. Guy loves his job, that's for sure.

A masked guard is standing in between them and the control panel they need to access. The goal is to make him surrender to interrogation - but so far the guy won't play ball. He keeps scanning from Steve's face to Bucky's. Bucky has a gun leveled straight between where the guy's eyes should be, and a glare that could cut glass etched onto his face. Several yards behind them Morita is busy helping Jones bring down the guy's stupidly enormous and apparently pretty useless partner. Steve's doing his best to intimidate the smarter one into giving up.

"Just step away." Steve orders, in his strongest Captain America voice.

"Who are you?" The guard hisses, taking a step back. He hasn't lowered his gun yet, but he hasn't made any move to fire it either. He looks like he's weighing the odds and finding that they're no longer in his favor.

"That's Captain America." Bucky informs the black-clad guard blithely, inclining his head toward Steve. "An' this-," he cocks the sidearm very deliberately, aim never wavering for an instant, "-is the part where you surrender or we splatter you off a couple'a walls."

The guard stares at them wordlessly for a moment, then seems to reach a decision. "Cut off one head, two more will take it's place." The barrel of the enormous weapon moves to level with with Steve's chest. "Hail HY-"  
The sharp report of a shot going off echoes through the room and the guard drops before his finger can pull the trigger; a clean hole through his forehead.

"Warned 'im." Bucky says simply, voice hard and angry. He whirls on his heel and puts a matching hole through the skull of the other guard, who's flailing around trying to land a huge hammy hand in Moirta's face. The guy twists at the impact of the shot, and Jones just manages to dive out of the way before 300 pounds of goon comes down on top of him.

Morita glares at Bucky as he helps Jones back up to his feet. "We were _tryin'_ to take someone alive here, Barnes!" he snaps, ducking as another, smaller explosion sends bits of a wall over their heads. "Y'can't just plug everybody we come across. We _need _intel!"

"These assholes never cooperate." Bucky shrugs, utterly unrepentant as he clicks another round into his gun, glancing sidelong at Steve like he's reassuring himself that the Captain's unharmed. "An' my job's getting all you idiots back to base alive. I get chewed out somethin' fierce, you come back dead."

"He might've given us somethin', Buck…" Steve starts, but Bucky just tilts a glare in his direction. Steve sighs, letting it go for now, and setting about getting what they need from the console.

"_Or_ he mighta put a hole in you. I'm feelin' pretty good about my call, here." Bucky plants himself at Steve's six and crosses his arms firmly.

"Fortunately, we have a location for two more factories." Steve calls over his shoulder. "But Jim's right, Buck, we need to collect whatever intel we can get."

"You look me in the eye and tell me you think that fuckhead was gonna talk, and drinks are on me next time we hit civilization." Bucky challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Steve glances at the dead guard, hesitates, then sighs. "The other guy might've."

"Check his mouth." Bucky suggests, unimpressed. "Bet you ten dollars he had one'a those little pills in there, in case we did take 'im alive."

Jones and Morita glance at each other and shrug. A few minutes later, Steve takes Morita's muffled swearing as verification.

He tries not to notice the smug satisfaction on his friend's face.


	52. Chapter 52

_**A/N: Brace yourselves. It's about to get angsty.**_

* * *

The fighting is thick and heavy for a change. HYDRA has apparently wised up since the last few raids, and they're actually putting up a pretty sturdy resistance this time. As usual, Steve's out front, smashing his way through the lines and clearing a path for his team. As usual, Bucky had tried very hard to veto this plan. He might accept that Steve is the group's CO, and he might accept that their work is risky and dangerous by nature… but he absolutely refuses to accept that Steve shoulder the bulk of that danger. It's a battle of its own every time.

He's lost track of the others in the chaos, but he can hear shouting and crashing behind him and can only assume they're not far behind, since nobody's managed to take his head off from back there yet.

They've fought their way inside the gates and subdued the ground force, just doing clean-up in the courtyard outside, when it happens.  
He's in the middle of wiping the floor with several masked combatants when the space around him suddenly clears and there's a distinctive whine in the air. He knows that sound…  
He's got maybe five seconds to the impact and nowhere to run when something barrells into him from behind with a yelp of "STEVE GET DOWN!".  
They roll together, landing in a heap against the stone wall of the compound, Steve beneath his rescuer. The ground where he'd just been explodes an instant later, in a shower of stone and hot debris. The person still sprawled over his back jolts with a pained sounding grunt. A few moments later, they roll gingerly away to crouch beside him, one arm cradled against their chest by the other, breathing hard through gritted teeth.

Steve's eyes go wide with realization.  
"Buck!"

"Goddamn… idiot… Steve." Bucky pants, just before his eyes roll back in his head and he lists forward, slumping limply to the ground.

* * *

The world grinds momentarily to a halt as Steve lurches across the tiny distance between them and carefully rolls Bucky over. He checks fearfully for a pulse. It's there; a little thready, but strong. Bucky's out, but he's alive. Steve can breathe again.

Dugan, Fallsworth, and Morita clear out the remaining forces while Dernier sets up the demolition charges and Gabe skids to a halt beside Steve.  
The battle draws to a swift end around them.

Bucky's shoulder took a hard hit from a chunk of debris, and got slammed out of joint. It'll need to be re-seated. He took another, mercifully smaller hit to the back of the head, and there's a small lump already forming there to prove it. Bucky doesn't seem too badly hurt, but he might also have a mild concussion from the shock-wave that followed, and that will make things messier.  
Jones says he's safe enough to move that they can get him the hell out of here. That's all Steve needs to know.

"Man down, returning to camp! As soon as you're clear, hit the charges and get the hell out of here!" he calls, gathering Bucky up carefully in his arms. He tries very, very hard not to think about how close he just came to losing his best friend, as he turns around and runs full out.  
Jones follows as close behind him as he can manage.

The sprint back to camp crawls past; agonizingly slow for all Steve's speed. He can feel Bucky's head lolling and thumping softly against his chest with every ground-eating stride, the arm tucked awkwardly over Bucky's inert body. He's trying his best not to jar the man in his arms any more than is absolutely necessary, but the ground is rough and there's only so much cushioning he can do.  
Steve's asthma might be gone, but the familiar vice-like crush that squeezes all the air out of his lungs is making a stunning reappearance whenever his focus wavers and he lets himself replay the battle that they've just left. He can't decide if it's the shock that's causing it... or fear ...or both, but he shakes it off. He's still got a job to do.  
Steve forces his mind to narrow down to only one thought: _Get Bucky back to camp._ Then he does just that.

* * *

Bucky's still out cold, carefully arranged in his bedroll beside their small campfire, his shoulder already popped back into joint, when the others return to camp. Steve thinks, with a barely suppressed shudder, that the sound the arm made when it finally slid back home will stay with him forever. Bodies shouldn't make that kind of noise.  
Jones stays with Bucky by silent agreement, keeping a sharp eye out for complications, while Steve goes to meet the rest of the team.

Dugan's face is carved stone, his posture rigid, and his fists clenched. Somehow, even though they're close to same height, he still manages to loom threateningly over Steve.  
"Th' hell happened back there, Cap?" he demands immediately, voice tight, low, and dangerous. Steve clears his throat and squares his shoulders. He might be Dugan's commanding officer, but he's well aware that that means all of jack and shit at the moment. He knows where this is going.

"Shell." he replies as steadily as he can, drawing himself up. "He tackled me clear before it hit."

"The fuck was he doing takin' a hit for you? You're fuckin' _**superman**_!" Dugan's voice gets a little more shrill and a lot louder as he talks. "Buck can't take a hit like you can, why the hell-" Dum Dum takes a step toward him and Fallsworth moves between them.

"Dugan." The Brit says sharply. "Stop it. This isn't helping anyone, least of all Barnes. Stand down."

"No, I wanna know why Sarge is the one laid out, Cap." Dum Dum goes on angrily, as if he hadn't heard, though he makes no move to push past Fallsworth and escalate this. "Kid's already been through hell, and now-"

Steve's frayed nerves abruptly snap."You think I wanted this to happen?!" he barks, feeling his face flush with frustrated anger. "You think for a _second_ I'd have let him take a hit for me if I could help it?!" He takes a small step forward before he catches himself.  
He's not going to hit Dugan. He understands exactly how the big man feels. He's furious too. At HYDRA. At himself. Even a little bit at Bucky for hurling himself into harm's way. There's no reason to make this any worse.

"So why'd he take it, then?" Dum Dum demands. He sounds less furious and more just desperate for someone, some_thing_ to blame. "Why's he down for the count?"  
The _instead of you_ is implied, but Steve doesn't resent it. He'd trade places with Bucky in a heart-beat if it kept his friend safe. No matter what the price might be.

" 'Cause that's just what he does." Steve says his voice going quiet without his consent. Resigned. "When somebody's in trouble, he gets 'em out. Never have been able to get him to see sense…"

Dugan hesitates then, some of the fight going out of him. He looks like he wants to say more, but Bucky chooses that exact moment to groan and open his eyes. The tension in the camp fizzles instantly. Steve peels off from the confrontation and drops into a crouch beside his friend.

Bucky groans again, softer this time, before he spots Steve from the ground. Then he swears.  
"Christ, Steve, you moron... You better be ok." Bucky mutters, slowly, swayingly, sitting up and putting one hand to his forehead. He winces when his shoulder pulls. "What'd… I tell you ...about tryin' to get yourself killed?"

"I'm fine, jerk." Steve assures him, almost giddy with relief. "You're the one that got your ass kicked. Don't you _ever _scare me like that again."

"...Told you that plan was stupid." Bucky grumbles instead of answering. He massages at his eyes for a second then lets the hand drop. "Said 'you're gonna get yourself killed', but you ever listen to me? _Hell_ no."

"Buck, just so you know: if you die out here, I swear to god I'm gonna kill you." Steve tells him with an extremely strained grin, too grateful that Bucky's alright to even try looking serious.

"And I'll help." Dugan adds from behind him. "So knock off the heroic shit, Sarge."

"Couple'a killjoys." Bucky snarks, rubbing gingerly at his sore arm and flexing it carefully. He makes a face when something clicks. "Always gotta ruin all a guy's fun."


	53. Chapter 53

It's been two months of high-risk infiltration work since Bucky's run-in with the shell and nobody's been injured since.  
In retrospect, Steve supposes they should've been bracing for the other shoe to drop, but they'd fallen into a rhythm. The team was mowing down HYDRA like a well-oiled machine and they were caught up in their own success.

It's a lucky shot, and fortunately not a very good one, but it still drops Steve to his knees. Bucky finishes off the ambushing enemy sniper in the next breath, sending them careening out of the tree where they'd been hidden and tumbling gracelessly into the snow. He doesn't bother confirming the kill before taking off toward Steve, boots pounding over the frozen dirt.  
Bucky doesn't miss.

Steve stares, confused, at the blood that's soaking into his uniform. For a few moments he can't understand where the growing crimson stain is coming from. It takes him a long moment to realize that it's his. His balance wavers.

He turns to Bucky, who's sprinting flat out across the snowy field between them, face as white as the ground beneath their feet, and his head spins. It's not a fatal hit, Steve's pretty sure. But that doesn't stop the spots from forming at the edges of his vision, and it certainly doesn't stop him from passing out right as Bucky reaches him.  
"Fucking _hell_ Steve!" is the last thing he hears before everything fades to black.

* * *

"-comin' around, guys!"  
Steve opens his eyes to see Jim Morita standing over him. Dum Dum is standing not far behind him, trying vainly to keep Bucky from shoving past. "Rise an' shine, Cap!" Morita grins, as Bucky finally breaks away from Dugan.

"Jesus Christ, I thought you died." Bucky breathes, sinking down to his knees next to Steve's head.

"What… what hit me…?" Steve mumbles, before he remembers. _Oh...Right...  
_He tips his head toward Bucky, trying for humor. "Word of advice: don't get shot." he grins, though it feels pretty thin, even to him. One hand reflexively skims the bandages around his midsection, but he jerks his hand away at the sting that causes. He can already feel the flesh knitting together again, but damned if it's not still tender and sore. "Hurts like a bitch."

"No shit, dummy." Bucky scruffs a hand through Steve's hair, making a mess of it; apparently out of nervous reflex. Normally he'd give Steve a smack on the arm, but he seems scared to get anywhere near the thick band of rust-stained white gauze over Steve's middle. "S'why you're supposed to _avoid_ the bullets."

Bucky's face twists abruptly, and Steve _knows_ that look. All good humor around them seems to evaporate inside of a breath. The others quietly move away, giving them room. They know a delicate situation when they see one.

" 'M sorry, Steve." Bucky whispers, voice sounding slightly strangled. He looks utterly devastated, thinly veiled behind a weak smile. "I didn't know they were there until-"

"S'alright." Steve interrupts, starting to sit, then quickly thinking better of it. He gingerly lowers himself back down. "I'm durable. It'll heal up in no time."

"Not the fuckin' point, Steve." Bucky mutters staring down at his hands.

"Nobody's perfect, Buck." Steve raises his eyes and tries to force Bucky to look at him. Bucky looks away, but his fingers brush Steve's shoulder. "Not even you. And hey, we're even now."

"I should'a marched your ass back to Brooklyn first thing." Bucky groans with a forced laugh. He sounds like he's only half kidding. "You suck at stayin' alive, Rogers."

"Made it this far, didn't I?" Steve smirks. He can't be sure if the shadow that flitted over Bucky's face just then was his imagination or not, but Bucky doesn't answer him for a long time.

"Yeah…" Bucky says softly. "I guess you did."

* * *

They don't bring up the incident again, but Bucky abjectly refuses to let Steve out of his sight after that. Where Steve goes, he goes. In combat, he's always covering Steve's back. He scans the trees relentlessly, and he never -_never-_ misses a shot.

No one ever gets in a lucky hit again.


	54. Chapter 54

_**A/N: Inspiration for the next few chapters comes very heavily from the illustrious bonesbuckleup of Tumblr and their excellent metas. If you haven't read them, go do so now!**_

* * *

Steve is seriously starting to worry about Bucky again. Every so often, Buck will get a funny look on his face and stumble off into the woods, ostensibly to take a leak. He's always gone a long time, and Steve's pretty sure Bucky'd have to be a damned _camel_ to pee that long, so he'd wager it's bad memories rearing their ugly heads... maybe just the need to be alone for a while and regroup.

Steve definitely doesn't like the idea of Bucky being out alone in the dark in enemy territory... not after the terrifying ordeal of watching Bucky pass right the hell out in front of him in the middle of a fire-fight… But as long as they're not in _active_ enemy territory, he chooses not to say anything. He's already gotten only half-teasing grief from Bucky about smothering him in good intentions - as hypocritical as they both know that sentiment is- …. and he _does_ gets the need for space to sort things out…  
So, even though it feels wrong to let it slide, he watches Bucky go and doesn't say a word.


	55. Chapter 55

_**Plot Interlude #4**_

* * *

"Hey Barnes, where ya goin'?" Dum Dum glances up as Sarge passes him. The kid's walking a little funny, kind of rigid; and he's not up for a watch until close to dawn, so he should really be bedded down for the night by now.  
Bucky freezes for half a second before he answers.

"Gotta piss." he mutters, stumbling out of the fire-light and into the trees.

Dugan watches the darkness that has swallowed Barnes up, musing for a few seconds, then turns back to the quiet camp. There was definitely something off about Bucky just now. It could've just been a trick of the flickering light… the odd fall of shadows in the semi-darkness, but he'd have sworn-

He shakes Dernier awake and makes a show of grimacing and holding his middle.  
"Beans are comin' back to haunt me. Take over for a bit?"

The frenchman grumbles sleepily, sitting up in his bedroll and rubbing at his eyes. "Oui, hurry up." he agrees after a few moments, scruffing a hand down his face and looking disgruntled.

* * *

There's no sign of Barnes at first. The mottled, cloud-covered moonlight is of little help beneath the trees, and the firelight doesn't begin to reach here. He feels his way forward, squinting for footprints in the damp, dark earth as his eyes adjust. He thinks he can just about make out a faint trail when he all but trips over something human-sized in his path.

Barnes is huddled in a tight, shivering ball at the foot of a huge silvery oak, jaw set in a rigid line, and biting down on a fold of his sleeve so hard that it hurts Dugan's teeth just to watch. The kid's sweating bullets and even in the dim light, Dum Dum can see that he's white as paper and shaking like a leaf. Sarge's eyes are screwed shut and he keeps making this faint keening noise, low in his throat, that doesn't seem to be voluntary; twitching every now and then. Barnes looks like he's dying right there on the ground.

"Christ, Barnes." He drops to his knees as Bucky's eyes shoot open, startled and panicked. "Fuckin' _Christ…_"

Barnes looks awful. He's breathing hard through his nose like he doesn't trust himself not to scream if he lets the air anywhere near his mouth. Dugan hesitates, hand ghosting over Barnes' shoulder uncertainly. Bucky lets a tiny groan of misery slip out, before clamping his lips tightly shut around it. Dum Dum pulls back, not sure he should touch the kid. Looks like Buck'd just collapse into dust if he did. Dugan climbs jerkily back to his feet, at a loss. This is way over his head.  
Barnes hisses abruptly and twists on the ground, grinding his teeth. That does it.  
"Oh Jeesus _Christ_. I'm gettin' Cap-"

A hand shoots out and grabs his boot before he can turn to leave. He looks down. Barnes is looking desperately up at him, pale eyes wide and glassy. A sharp shake of the head. _No._ Bucky's face contorts at the effort and an awful, painful noise squeaks out of his throat.  
"Nnnngah… f-fuck… no." Barnes wheezes out, gritting his teeth hard and curling impossibly tighter around himself. The hand still heavily draped over Dugan's foot is trembling. "N-no. Can't- ggggghh… Jus' be...be q-quiet..."

Fear flares brighter in Dugan's gut. Bucky looks like he's in agony, but there's not a mark on him. What the hell could do that to a man…?  
_Poison_ volunteers itself unhelpfully in his brain.

"Kid, what's wrong?" Bucky shakes his head sharply again, and Dum Dum is amazed he hasn't bitten clean through that sleeve the way his jaw is locked. "Don't fuckin' do this to me, Barnes! We talked about this once. 'No dyin' ', remember?!"

Barnes's eyes are tightly closed again -and he looks like he's in the middle of swallowing his own tongue- before he blinks them open again with what looks like tremendous effort. "Nnnggggg-give… give me a m-minute…" Bucky gasps out, knuckles going white where he's blindly pawing and clutching against the cold, damp ground. His fingers twitch reflexively, hard, against Dugan's boot.

After what feels like hours, but can only be a few minutes, the grasp on Dum Dum's foot slowly loosens. Barnes limply dissolves outward into a loose pile of limbs; panting and pathetic on the ground. He spits out the mangled cuff of his coat and groans softly, rolling over to splay himself out on his back.

"What the fuck _was_ that?!" Dugan hisses frantically, dropping into a crouch to get a better look at the kid, not entirely satisfied that Sarge really isn't going to die right here in front of him. "What the _fuck _just happened?!"

Barnes pushes himself up onto his elbows slowly, still panting, and scruffs a dirty hand over his face. It leaves behind a muddy trail. He grimaces and swipes the mess off again with the back of his wrist.  
"Nothin'." he wheezes, letting his hand drop, sounding thoroughly exhausted and out of breath. "Just… Side effect."

"Side effect?" Dugan blinks a moment before recognition sets in. He lets out a long low breath. "This's from that Nazi fuckhead's lab, ain't it?" Barnes's face clouds. He looks away and says nothing. "You said you were fine, kid. You said 'just got th'shit kicked outta me, nothin I can't handle'. That's what you told us, Barnes!"

"I can handle it."  
And just like that, he can see how young Sarge really is. Stubborn, stupid kid that just _keeps _getting the shit kicked out of him - and it's wearing him down, but he'd sooner die than admit it. He's gonna deal with this whole crazy thing alone if that keeps it all quiet…  
A loud, angry roar echoes through Dugan's head as white-hot rage dims the edges of his vision. He has to resist the urge to try putting his fist through the tree. Cap might be able to get away with that shit, but he'd probably break something if he tried.  
To say that Dum Dum's pissed off would be a massive understatement.  
Somebody did this to Barnes, and he's gonna personally find and splatter that bastard one of these days. If he hadn't already wanted to blow the hell out of HYDRA, well he sure as _fuck_ does now.

"This happen before?" he demands quietly. Bucky looks down at his hands in silence, and that's his answer. Dugan can feel his face twisting into an ugly grimace.  
"How many times? It always this bad?"

Bucky still won't look at him. "S'pretty normal."

"How many times, Jimmy?"

"_Told_ you not to call me that, Dum Dum." Barnes slowly climbs to his feet, wavering for a second as his hand shoots up to his forehead like he's about to faint. The kid steadies out again a moment later, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, and some color slowly ebbs back into his face.

"You seen a medic for that?"

Bucky shakes his head carefully, leaning down a little to brace his hands against his thighs. "No point. Just got checked out. Healthy as a fuckin' horse."

"You sure don't _look_ healthy, kid." Dugan frowns, considering. "Tell Gabe. At least have him check ya out."

"Dugan, I'm tellin' ya-"

"Either you tell Jones, or I tell Rogers." That shuts Barnes up. He glares a moment, then finally nods.

"Fine. But he's gonna hafta keep his mouth shut too."

Dum Dum nods and sighs, looking up into the tree-tops as if the answers he needs are there to be seen. He feels like a heel for caving in.  
He _should_ tell the Captain. Of course he should. He's not stupid. This is big and dangerous, and Sarge has had his ass handed to him more than enough times as it is… The kid needs his brothers in arms backing him up, and they can't do that if they don't know what's hurting him.

It's just… Bucky never really asks for anything. Never has. This's gotta be important, even if he's got no damned idea why. So Dugan'll compromise, at least for now.  
He'll do what Sarge wants. He's just getting real damned tired of seeing this kid looking like his legs are about to give out underneath him.  
"C'n you walk?" he asks, to change the subject.

Barnes nods, and he looks almost normal except for the bits of dirt on his uniform. He's not pale or shaking anymore, and the sweat had dried and vanished. Kid does actually look pretty healthy now.  
"I'm good." Bucky mutters, pointedly looking anywhere but at Dum Dum as he slowly straightens up and dusts himself off. "Only ever lasts a few minutes, then s'gone."

"It ever stay gone?"

Barnes quietly brushes past him, without meeting his eyes. "For a while."

* * *

Dernier gives him a dirty look when Dugan comes back and drops himself numbly down beside the fire again. The frenchman quickly burrows back into his warm bedroll and rolls over, very irritably informing Dugan that since he took his own sweet time, he's welcome to take Dernier's watch as well.

And that's fine, really. It's ok.  
Dum Dum wasn't going to sleep much more tonight anyway.


	56. Chapter 56

Bucky is buttoning his jacket back up in silence, looking half smug, half just tired. Dum Dum is torn between wanting to hug the poor kid and wanting to smack him. Jones clears his throat, grabbing their attention.

"Look... Barnes, just because _I _didn't find anything, that doesn't mean nothing's wrong with you. I got the bare bones for equipment, couple'a candles, and a shitty tent; you need somebody with a degree and the right tools for this… If these episodes of yours are as bad as what you're describing, you need to go see a real doctor and-"

"No." Bucky interrupts flatly. "Already got the complete poke 'n' prod routine back before we shipped out again, an' they didn't find anything. Said I'm great. Better'n great. You didn't find anythin' cause there's nothin' to _find_."

Gabe glances over at Dugan and catches his eye. They're both thinking the same thing.  
"... You're sure about not telling Steve?" Jones asks, returning his gaze to Bucky as he leans back against the edge of his little exam table, crossing his arms. "Guy's your best friend…"

"I'm sure." Sarge studies his fingers with sudden interest. His brow crinkles like he's some volatile mixture of frustrated and scared and just… fed up with everything. "Kid's got enough to worry about, and what's he gonna do? Yell at it 'till it's all better?"

They look at each other again. Gabe shrugs and starts packing up his medical supplies. What else can he say? They both know Barnes isn't really listening. It's either humor him or force his ass onto a transport headed state-side. And they both know what a kicking, screaming, frothing mess _that'd_ be.

Dugan sighs.  
"I said I'd keep it quiet an' I will... but I think it's a mistake, Buck."

"I know." Barnes mumbles, not looking at him.

"What if it happens in a scrape?" Dum Dum asks quietly. It's the question they've all been avoiding. "What're you gonna do then?"

Bucky blanches just slightly, but he doesn't back down. "I'll handle it."

"You'll handle it…" Dugan repeats, incredulous.

Bucky stands up sharply and stalks to the tent flap.  
"I _said _I'll fuckin' handle it." He seems to run out of steam there and his shoulders slump. He hesitates, but doesn't turn around. "Just… leave it alone, would ya?"  
Barnes leaves without looking back.

"They're a matched set, those two idiots." Gabe remarks, shaking his head. "Cap 'n' Sarge. Neither one of 'em's got the sense to ask for help, and they sure as hell don't know when to quit…"

"I'll keep an eye on 'im." Dum Dum says distantly. "Can't get the stubborn little bastard to listen to sense, 'least I can watch his back."

Jones hesitates then nods, clapping a hand on Dugan's bulky shoulder as he gathers up his tool bag. Guy's no stranger to how protective Dum Dum is with Bucky. None of the Commandos are, really. How protective he's been since Azzano. Since long before then.  
Ever since Sergeant Bucky Stubborn-Fucker Barnes got under his skin and became his honorary kid-brother; commanding officer or not.  
Gabe sighs. He knows this is going to be trouble, but they're men of their word. He won't say anything to Cap unless he has to.

"_Ugh_." He tosses a roll of gauze back into the bag with a little more force than necessary, then hangs his head and rolls his eyes skyward. "God save us from these stubborn martyr wanna-bes." Jones mutters, glancing sidelong at Dugan. "Barnes's gonna need a lot of help with this, whether he wants it or not."

Dum Dum drags a scuffed up flask out of his jacket and takes a long pull.  
"Don't I know it." he mutters, offering Gabe a swig. "Kid's a fuckin' trouble-magnet."


	57. Chapter 57

Barnes has three more fits before the end.

Dum Dum sits with him through each one, trying to be a comforting presence, though he has no idea what to do to make it better. A little part of him dies each time he watches Barnes convulsing miserably on the ground, sleeve shoved between his teeth, trying not to scream.

Sarge won't say much about what happens when he's like this, but when Jones pressed for information he'd finally, reluctantly, told them that it feels like his body's trying to turn inside out. Like his bones want to be outside, his skin is shrinking, trying to sink back into him. He said his veins burn like they're going to explode, and his heart pounds a crazy rhythm in his ears until he can barely hear a thing. Jones had listened to Barnes' heartbeat and lungs carefully, worried about lasting damage, but there'd been no sign of trouble to be heard. The kid, true to his word, seemed perfectly sound, and Gabe couldn't begin to account for it.

Dugan watches as Barnes comes out of his latest fit; the bone-cracking tension in his limbs slowly letting go as he droops with now familiar relief. It's finally over.  
...At least until the next one.

"Look, Sarge, I know you don't wanna hear this…" he says quietly, as Bucky leans over himself, hands braced against his thighs, and catches his breath. "But you gotta tell Cap. Y'need help, kid..."

"No." Bucky wheezes, barely glancing up at him. There's a tightness around his eyes that says he's still in pain, but it's fading now. He'll be right as rain in a minute or two.

"Barnes-"

"Said '_no'_, Dugan."

"It's gettin' worse."  
He lays it out bluntly, because he knows how Bucky is. Hard headed jackass that won't listen to sense unless you bludgeon him with it.  
And the fits _are_ getting progressively worse. He can tell by the way Barnes twitches with his entire body. How he chokes on his own swallowed screams like they're laced with broken glass. By the way that he staggers as he's trying to get up afterward. Dum Dum's doesn't know how much worse they can get, but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to.  
"You know it is."

Buck freezes, then slowly straightens up. There's an mix of fear and outright hostility in his eyes.  
"I'm handlin' it." he says coldly.

"Barnes, _please_-"

Bucky pushes off of the tree he's supporting himself on and starts moving back toward basecamp. His steps are a little jerkier than usual, but then he's not quite recovered yet. He probably will be by the time he hits camp.

"Buck..."

The kid hesitates for a moment, back to Dugan, then squares his shoulders and keeps walking.  
Later, Dum Dum will never forgive himself for that. For letting Barnes walk away. *

He keeps his promise to the end though, and doesn't tell Rogers; even after Barnes falls. What's the point in spilling, now that the kid's gone?

He hates himself for that too.

* * *

_**A/N: * Borrowed these two lines almost verbatim, because they were too perfect to be improved upon. Credit where it's due. **_

_**END OF PLOT INTERLUDE**_


	58. Chapter 58

_**A/N:Big update today. 4 longish chapters, because there's no good way to break them up into separate updates. We're nearing the end of part 1 of the story, so things may move quickly until we reach that point. (Assuming life doesn't happen as it is wont to do sometimes.)  
**_

_**Also, sorry to disappoint those of you who wanted me to write about the train, but I have already covered it pretty thoroughly in other stories, and there's just not much expansion I can do on it here. It's a pretty self-contained scene. What I CAN expand on, however, is what came after...**_

* * *

It was a dangerous mission. They all knew it was. Steve just can't quite figure out how it went this wrong.

Jones touches his shoulder and he flinches, startled, turning away from the mouth of the ravine that swallowed his best friend. The others are waiting for him.  
The ruined train car is only a few yards away, gleaming innocuously in the cold. Zola is cowering in the snow at the back of the camp; hog-tied and gagged after he started ranting and whimpering in rabid German. A large purpling bruise has blossomed on his cheek that none of them have yet commented on. Steve doesn't know which one of the Commandos is responsible for it, but he's not going to ask either. Right now he's A-Ok with any abuse they want to heap on the prisoner. Any suffering they choose to inflict. If they wanted to toss the little man over the cliff to follow after Bucky... he'd probably let them. It's all he can do, not to do it himself.  
… It's probably a good thing his men are calmer than he is, because Steve is definitely seeing red right now, and his self control is hanging by a thread.

They've already combed the valley floor for hours, but he knew it was essentially hopeless before they even started down. He just can't wrap his mind around the reality, hard as he's trying to.

The only trace they found in six and a half hours of searching was a swath of sickeningly bright red, spattered across a sharp stone outcropping, almost a mile beneath the tracks. Bucky's dog-tags were tangled around it, the chain snapped and dangling loose into the stained snow. There had been a small patch of disturbed snow just above the stone, as if something had impacted and slid, but the landscape beneath is smooth and crisp. Undisturbed. The trail stops there.

It was Fallsworth who'd found it first, and Steve had known just from the tone of his voice that the news was grim. He'd approached on unsteady legs, bracing himself. Hadn't been prepared for the sight of his best friend's blood, gleaming against the snow. Nothing would ever prepare him for that.  
Steve's entire world had shattered as he stared. The chances of finding Bucky alive had just plummeted. Even if he'd survived the initial fall, an impact like this could've killed him all on it's own, especially if the rock had snagged his tags.. Steve tried hard not to picture Bucky's neck snapping on impact and cursed his very vivid imagination when he failed.  
Even if by some miracle Bucky _had_ survived this… Even if they somehow found him... they'd never get him out of the ravine alive before exposure finished him off.  
Steve's stomach had dropped like a stone and his head abruptly felt light. He had to look away. Dimly, he heard Dugan swearing behind him, and was vaguely aware of the retching sound that came on its heels. He was close to being sick himself.

"...Captain?" Fallsworth had carefully untangled the battered tags, faintly smudged with the same slowly dulling crimson as the snow. He placed them silently in Steve's hand when it was slowly, dazedly extended. The etched metal looked impossibly small and fragile against his palm, and he swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, tucking them carefully into a pocket in his uniform.  
They were not mentioned again.

The Commandos had searched the entire area desperately, but there had been nothing else to find. When a vicious windstorm had whipped up near evening, Steve had reluctantly called off the search. Visibility was nearing zero and the temperature was rapidly dropping. With a heavy heart, he led his men back to camp, where Dernier was still supervising the prisoner.

Steve considered it a supreme act of willpower that he went straight into his tent and slowly crushed a canteen into scrap between his fingers, instead of putting a fist through Zola's skull the way he really wanted to.

Later, he'll come to regret not just giving in to that urge. It might've saved everyone a lot of suffering.


	59. Chapter 59

They find a flat stone and Steve carefully etches out '_James Buchannan "Bucky" Barnes. 1917-1944_' across the surface. His hands shake, though it's nothing to do with the cold. He ignores the little scuff marks that makes. He's not capable of making this any neater right now.

On a flat ledge, overlooking the tracks below, the six of them dig a shallow grave in the frozen soil.

Dum Dum offers up a pack of cigarettes. They were Bucky's favorite brand. Dugan had consistently made sure to keep an extra pack on hand whenever possible, just in case Sarge wanted to bum one. No reason to keep them now - not when he'll never have the heart to smoke them himself. They go to rest in the frosty ground.  
Dernier adds a flask of strong whiskey (Bucky's drink of choice) to the offering, nestling it down into the cold earth. Flakes of half-hearted snow drift across the surface of the metal.  
Steve produces an old photograph that he's been carrying in his pack since he shipped out - Bucky back home, grinning on his mama's front stoop. The picture is close to five years old now. Buck had been a happy kid then. Nothing bigger to worry about than holding down a job, maybe going dancing on the weekends. That's the Bucky Steve wants to remember. He sets the grainy, beat-up image on top of the smokes and they all stand in silence around the paltry offering.

"To Sarge." Morita finally says, voice rough. "He was a helluva guy…"

"Th' best…" Steve mumbles. If his cheeks are wet and stinging in the cold, none of them mention it.

They each take turns, gently laying shovelfuls of earth over the sad little pile, until there's nothing to be seen but a small mound of freshly turned dirt. Steve slowly, deliberately, presses the carved stone over the center of the mound, breathing slowly, in and out, through his nose.  
He doesn't stand immediately; just crouches in the snow, fingers resting on the cold surface, eyes staring sightlessly into the distance. He couldn't say how long he stays that way, time flowing uncaringy on without him.

When he feels the first sob wrack through him, though, he knows the others have already paid their last respects and drifted back to camp. They've left him alone with the dead.

* * *

"I can't believe you're gone, you big jerk…" Steve murmurs, choking on a laugh that tumbles headlong into a sob. "Christ, Buck... I was supposed to go first." he breathes out, the words stinging in his throat like acid. "I was always supposed to go first, an' now…" His face falls into his hands and he can feel his shoulders shaking as he struggles to get the words out around the tears that are jammed in his mouth, weighing down his tongue.

"Y'can't leave me here… I don't know what to _do_ without you…" He falls silent with a muffled sniffle.  
The wind whistles below, mournful wailing the only sound for miles.  
With effort, he swallows down the burning rawness in his throat and goes on. "It's my fault, I know. I-. God...I'm so sorry, Buck, it was my fault, an' I should've-" He breaks off, staring down at his hands. His huge, fucking _useless_ hands. "They made me into this super… _thing_ and I couldn't even-... I should'a … I should'a caught you. I should'a reached."  
He sucks in a shuddering breath, trails of heat tracking down his cheeks as the tears break free. He makes no attempt to stop them.

After a few moments of trying to catch his breath, he unfastens the collar of his uniform with shaking fingers, and fumbles for the warm metal tags around his own neck. Draws them out and yanks them free with one sharp tug. The ball-chain dangles from his hand, snapped on both ends. Two chains broken. That suits.  
"Hang onto these for me, yeah, pal?" Steve murmurs softly, brushing aside the snow and pressing his own dog-tags down into the earth right below Bucky's stone. Delicate white frosts them within moments, and they slowly start to vanish from sight. "Not gonna need 'em now."  
He chokes on a breath and shivers, scrubbing a hand across his face. " Who's gonna miss me? Next'a kin is right here."  
Unconsciously, he lays a hand over Bucky's snapped tags, coiled in his breast pocket.  
"Fucker'll pay, Buck. I know it won't bring you back, but I swear to god I'm gonna make him pay." Something cold and hard solidifies in the pit of his stomach as he stands unsteadily, then slowly brings himself up to sharp attention and throws a crisp salute to the rapidly vanishing grave, dusted in snow and ice. "Rest in peace, buddy."

Then he turns and walks away on shaking legs, the tears slowly drying as he goes. He ignores the stabbing empty feeling that echoes through his core. He'll deal with that later.  
Right now, he's got work to do and people to end.

HYDRA made a grave mistake in targeting Bucky Barnes. Anybody that lays hands on Bucky ultimately answers to Steve. And Steve is done taking prisoners.


	60. Chapter 60

Steve takes a young corporal aside when transport arrives and hands them a sealed letter addressed to Colonel Phillips. Impresses upon them that it is to be delivered IMMEDIATELY, and that it's for his eyes _only_.  
Starstruck, the kid nods fervently, tucks the letter firmly into his jacket, and scurries back to his station. Steve's got no doubt the kid will come through. Being Captain America does have a precious few advantages.

Stalking like a big cat through the body of the plane, he passes the prisoner under guard. A small vicious part of Steve roars with satisfaction when Zola cowers away from him. Steve pauses, aware that he's looming and making no effort to stop.  
_Go ahead. Say something, you spineless little bastard. _he thinks. _Try me.  
_The poisonous glare he's aiming at the balding scientist promises a gruesome fate if the man utters a single word. _Just give me an excuse. Spare me the paperwork_.  
Zola wilts and pointedly stares at the floor in silence.  
Steve keeps walking.


	61. Chapter 61

_**A/N: Plot interlude **_

* * *

"He cannot be serious." The colonel purses his lips, shaking the letter in his hand. "Tell me Rogers isn't serious."

Corporal Smith just shrugs and looks nervous.  
"Seemed serious, sir." Smith swallows uncomfortably. "Seemed real serious."

"Dismissed, Corporal." Phillips waves the young man away without looking up and waits for his footsteps to retreat before scanning back over the Captain's brief -and frankly, aggressive- note.

_Colonel,_

_Delivering Zola unharmed, per mission objective. When you're done with him, he's mine. Unfinished business. _

_-Cpt. Rogers_

He sighs, setting the note down and glancing at the condolence letter with Barnes' name on it, sitting on the corner of his desk and still awaiting his signature.  
He can't just hand over a valuable asset like that Nazi egghead for Rogers to tear apart, even if he'd pay to watch it happen. Little fucker not only cost them a good soldier, but he's essentially set Rogers off completely unmoored and pissed off. Not a great combination.

He looks between the documents once more and considers. God, is he tempted to look the other way…  
Washington would have a fit, though. Not worth the fallout, but damned if he wouldn't love to let it happen.

Phillips rubs at his eyes wearily and feeds Captain America's brief missive into the lamp on his desk. He can't give Rogers what he wants - but there's no need to tell him that just yet. He needs Rogers as focused as possible, under the circumstances. And that means not adding fuel to the fire.  
"Jacobson!" he barks, leaning back in his chair. The uniformed aid all but tumbles in the door and salutes.

"Sir?"

"I want to see Zola as soon as that bird lands. Alone. We're gonna have a nice _friendly_ chat. And call a meeting. I need everybody on this. Stark, Carter, Rogers and crew. Everybody."

"Yes sir. ASAP I assume?"

He pauses to consider that. Probably not wise to rush it too much. Rogers is going to be a basketcase, and god help the poor sap that gets on his bad side while the wound is still raw.  
"Give it a day. Not sure how long my little interview's gonna take."

His aide salutes crisply.  
"Sir, yes sir!"

Phillips rolls his eyes. Goddamned trained monkey ass-kisser, but the man's useful in his way.  
"_Dismissed_, Jacobson."

* * *

_**End of plot interlude**_


	62. Chapter 62

_**A/N: Don't worry, I'm not done making you all cry yet...**_

* * *

The day they return to London, Steve is formally given all of Bucky's things, including a letter that arrived from Brooklyn -ironically- on the day that Buck died.  
He takes it all with shaking hands and quietly excuses himself. Can barely breathe by the time he reaches his room and settles down, trembling, on the edge of his bed.  
He fumbles the letter open, feeling strangely intrusive -though he and Bucky always shared everything between them- and reads.

_Dear James,_

_Is everything alright? You haven't written in a few weeks, and you know how I worry when I don't hear from you. Please send us something soon, Bucky, honey._

_Your sisters send their love, of course. Becca wanted me to tell you that she saw you and Steve on a poster the other day. She's so proud of her big brother, it's just the sweetest thing._

_Rachel is starting dance lessons next week. She said she'll save you a seat at the recital. I told her you might not be home in time, but you know how Rae is. Nothing and nobody is going to convince that girl when her mind's made up. She misses you, baby._

_Cathy made you a doll. I know you'll love it. It's a little strange looking, but she's only four and she did her best. I had to mail it separate, but it should be right behind this letter. She wants you to write and let us know when you get it, so don't you dare forget!_

_And since you asked, I'm doing alright, I don't want you fussing about me anymore. It's just a little infection, nothing I can't handle. You always were my little worrier, Bucky. You'll make yourself sick if you just fret all the time, honey. We're doing just fine. You look after your own self, young man!_

_Also, before I forget to ask, how is Steve doing? I know you can't say much, but I do like to know how my boys are. Tell him we're thinking about him too._

_Write back soon, James. We miss you and we love you. Take care, baby._

_Love,  
__Ma_

It's several minutes before Steve can stop crying long enough to put the letter down. He's huffing long slow breaths, in and out, making himself inhale and exhale. Very deliberately, he folds the paper neatly over itself again and presses it carefully back into the envelope. Hands shaking, he sets it down on top of Bucky's things, left gingerly on his stool by the door, and stands there… just staring at the whole pile.

He can't, he realizes abruptly. He can't be here, alone with… with these dead things. He's got to get out of here. The room is squeezing in on him and it's going to crush him into nothingness soon. He's got to… Got to go…. go somewhere. He doesn't know where.

His feet are carrying him down the hall and out the barracks door before he even realizes he's moved, and he lets them go right on carrying him until he's standing in the bombed out ruins of a very familiar bar. His breath hitches.  
_Why the hell not?_ _It's so goddamned appropriate_…

He pulls up a stool to the last intact table, rummages out a miraculously undestroyed bottle of bourbon, and sits himself down with a couple of glasses.  
He promised Bucky they'd celebrate. That he'd let Bucky get him roaring drunk for a night. He pours out two shots of expensive booze and raises one in a toast. He can keep at least part of that promise, he tells himself as he drinks.

The liquor burns like a fire all the way down, but it tastes like ash in his mouth.


	63. Chapter 63

_**Meanwhile (plot interlude):**_

There's a pall over the barracks' common room, even with all five of the remaining Commandos gathered in it. No one's laughing, no one's joking or teasing. There are no cards laid on the table, and the only drinking going on seems more out of a desperate desire not to think than anything else.

Mostly they sit in silence, staring at the empty seat at their table.  
The Captain frequently joined them after missions. His absence is noticeable but not surprising.  
Barnes, however, was a fixture. He never missed a gathering, even when it was obvious he wasn't feeling like himself.  
His absence is unignorable.

Fallsworth stands up and paces for a while, then wanders over to a sagging bookcase and selects a scratchy record. Something slow and soothing; melancholy. He starts it playing, bracing both hands loosely on the table beneath the player, back to the rest of the room. He stays there a long time.

Jones stares down at the glass in his hands, taking a half-hearted sip now and then. He imagines he and Dugan are both thinking the same thing right now.

_We should've said something_…

The worst part is… he was going to. Right after this mission, in fact. Dum Dum had accidentally let slip that Barnes' episodes were getting worse and the kid just wouldn't fucking _listen_ to him, and that had been the very last straw. Gabe had never liked keeping something this serious quiet, but he'd reluctantly agreed since it had seemed so damned important to Barnes… But that'd been before it escalated.  
He was _going_ to say something...  
He'd been planning to take Steve aside, the very _minute_ they were finished securing the train, and explain to him what had been happening. To demand that he do something about this before Sarge ended up- … well… _dead_.  
His mind stutters on the word.

He supposes it's moot now. Way too late for it to make any difference. What's the point in telling the Captain after the fact? Why pour salt in the wound?  
Barnes is gone, and Rogers doesn't need to hear about how miserable his last days were, on top of that.

He hears Morita snuffle loudly to his right, mostly covered with a sleeve. None of them say a word.


	64. Chapter 64

_**Earlier:**_

Two trains of thought fight for dominance as the twisted metal bar grinds loose and the inevitable happens - his fingertips missing Steve's by a breath:  
Blind terror winds around the realization that this is it. He's going to die. He'd always known he wasn't going home, had no illusions of surviving the war…  
He just hadn't expected it to be like this.  
At least, though, he did his job while he was here. Steve's up there, _alive_, and that's because of Bucky Barnes. If he's got to go, at least he can go knowing he got that one thing right.

It doesn't stop him from screaming. Oh no. Nothing could have stopped that. But even as he pinwheels through the air - as he watches Steve rapidly shrink and disappear above him- he thinks, _Ok. I guess that's it, then._

* * *

It isn't a straight drop. He braces himself the best he can as he impacts, hard, on his side against a jagged point of rock. He can feel it slicing his arm to ribbons, from wrist to elbow, as he slides swiftly along the ridge. His coat shreds like paper, and he just feels the chain around his neck hooking in time to slam his uninjured hand between it and his throat. Yanking up short still bruises him something awful, but the chain gives before he does, and then he's bouncing wildly off into freefall again, clutching dazedly at the bloody remains of his left arm.  
He's already starting to regret the instinctive move that saved his life back there. Should've just let it happen. Let the rock finish him off. A quick clean break, and this would've all been over.  
Instead he's back to tumbling head over ass, agony searing up the left side of his body, and no idea how much longer this ordeal will go on.  
He's not surprised that his instincts saved him. Bucky's always been a survivor. But, sometimes… sometimes he really wishes he wasn't.

He's always expected to die out here. Ever since he shipped out, he's been bracing for it. For all that Steve talked about going home when it was over, Bucky never really thought he'd make it back. It's just... when he'd imagined dying, he'd always pictured it being sudden, over in a heartbeat. A quick release. He'd always thought somebody'd pick him off out of nowhere, drop him in his tracks - and that'd be that. No suffering, no lingering… just turn off the lights and go home.  
He certainly hadn't expected to meet his end ricocheting endlessly off the walls of a ravine.  
… Life's a bitch sometimes.

Bucky plummets for ...he doesn't know how long, before he slams sidelong into a sheer rock formation, hearing bones fracture on impact, and skids gracelessly down onto the canyon floor.  
He won't find out for a long time that the rocks that he hit actually sheltered him from view on one side of the ravine, left him exposed on the other. His team won't find him, coming in from the north as they are; they can search all they like.  
He lies there, dizzy and sick, in a shattered heap for a long few minutes, feeling the blood trickling from his nose, his forehead, the remains of his tattered arm, the lacerations all up and down his back; feeling the life slowly ebbing out of him; before mercifully everything begins to fade. Nothingness -blessed quiet nothingness- finally takes him over.

It doesn't last.

* * *

He comes to with a sickening jolt, dimly aware that he's moving. Something has a hold of the back of his coat, and it's dragging him carelessly through the snow. His eyes refuse to focus and everything aches viciously, searing him through and through with a formless agony. He's not sure where he is, but he's definitely not dead. ...He's a little strangely disappointed to realize that.  
He also abruptly realizes, with cold, muddled horror, that most of his arm is gone. Not simply battered or torn. It's gone.  
What's left leaves a vivid scarlet trail in the snow behind him as his… rescuer? tugs him along.  
_Is_ he being rescued? He can't think clearly enough to put pieces together. Dimly, he tilts his head up, faint hope sprouting.  
_Steve?_ he thinks dizzily, trying to make his vision cooperate.

It's not Steve.  
Blurrily, he can make out a thick-set man in a Russian uniform, hauling him unceremoniously over the ground, toward what looks like it might be a truck. Some deeply ingrained instinct tells him this is not a rescue. It's a capture.

He can't stay conscious, try though he might, but one last thought bubbles to the surface before he falls under again:  
_Goddammit. Can't even __**die**_ in peace...

* * *

(_**End of plot interlude)**_

_**A/N: Yes, I'm terrible. You're welcome.**_


	65. Chapter 65

_**A/N: Sorry to give you all such a short chapter after a few days with nothing, but I haven't had a chance to write more and this was all that I had already finished. More will come, just give me some time to get more chapters done :)**_

* * *

Steve can't get drunk.

It's not fair.  
He's downed half the bottle and… nothing. -_Nothing-_. No dimming of the sharp, ugly edges of reality. No warmth in the pit of his belly. No lightening of the darkness inside him. No blessed numbness.  
He's as alert as ever, and just as miserable.

He's on his feet before he realizes it, hurling his glass across the room in a sudden fit of temper. It shatters spectacularly against the wall, a shower of brilliant glass shards, glittering in the dim light. Blood pounds in his ears.  
He reaches for the other glass, then hesitates... and finds he can't do it.  
He can't touch Bucky's glass. Just can't make himself. Instead he falls limply back into his chair and stares at it for a long time, before dissolving into huge, ugly sobs; praying dimly that the bombs will come back. That they'll finish him off.

Bucky is all the family he's had since he was 18. He's head over heels for Peggy, and his men are a family of sorts but… they're not the same. Nothing can fill that void.  
He can't go back to Brooklyn and face Bucky's ma - tell her that he survived and Bucky didn't. He knows she wouldn't blame him. She'd hug him and thank him for trying … but he'd always know that it should've been him at the bottom of that canyon. Should've been Bucky knocking on his mama's front door. Bucky coming home. That's how it was always supposed to go. With or without Steve, Bucky was supposed to go home.

He can't face Bucky's family now - but more than that, he can't face going home alone. Can't stand the idea of New York without Bucky in it.  
He'll do whatever it takes to burn HYDRA to the ground. But ...after that? He doesn't care what happens.


	66. Chapter 66

(_**A/N: A plot interlude, that probably should've happened earlier, but man did we need to lighten things at least slightly after those last few chapters… SO, here we go. Some Howard Stark. He's good at light… generally.)**_

"What do you- … what do you mean 'you _lost_ Barnes'?" Howard reluctantly drags some of his attention away from the _extremely delicate_ wiring work he's been doing all afternoon. He's only half paying attention to the voice on the other end of the phone that's finally held against his shoulder after letting it ring about a dozen times already. The shit a guy puts up with sometimes, working for the Army…  
"How do you misplace a six-foot tall- No I'm not kidding- Hey, that's uncalled for, Phillips, I'm just-..."  
It sinks in, just about then, what this call is about. His indignant chatter drops off into silence. "Oh." Some of the brightness drops out of his tone. "Oh, you…. you mean…" He uncharacteristically fumbles for a few moments, trying to find the right words. "You mean… like… _dead_ lost…"

"_Yes_, Stark." He can hear the tight irritation in the colonel's tone. "I mean _K.I.A._ lost. What the hell did you think I meant?"

"Well fuck." Howard says eloquently, dropping himself heavily into a discarded office chair. He sets down his pliers for a few moments, picks them up, then sets them down again. He's not sure exactly what to do with himself. He's never been very good at losing things. He's never really had to be before.

Howard hadn't spent all that much time with Rogers' second in command -no more than he had with most of the Commandos-, but he does remember Barnes. The kid was sharp. Smart. Fucked up as they come, but he was an earnest little bastard - soaked up Howard's every word like it was solid gold.  
That kid had too much on the ball for this Army shit, that's for sure. He vaguely remembers offering Barnes a spot at Stark Industries when this whole mess finally ends. ... Guess that's moot now. It's a waste and a damned shame, is what it is.

"So... how's Rogers taking things?"

"How d'you _think_?"

Howard considers that for a few seconds, then leans back and shrugs. "Nothing's exploded on this end of town yet, so better than I'd have expected."

"That kid's a walking time-bomb if we don't get him settled the hell down, Stark." The colonel doesn't sound remotely amused. "For reasons I don't begin to understand, he _likes_ you. And _you_, unlike some folks around here, aren't going to encourage him to get _emotional_."  
That is one thing Phillips and he have always agreed on. Emotions are awkward, uncomfortable things - especially when they're not yours. Neither man really understands them and they sure as hell don't like dealing with them. Too messy. Too complicated. People get unpredictable when they're emotional.  
Unstable.  
Erratic.  
Not exactly conducive to taking out Nazi zealots.

The colonel is still talking.  
"Find Rogers. Talk to him. Get his head on straight and get him back to base. We need him to take down Schmidt, approximately _yesterday_."

"Look, Chester-," he hears the annoyed huff from Phillips on the other end of the line, but as usual, the colonel doesn't bother to chastise him for it. Nobody's ever got the balls to chastise him, and sometimes he just can't help but dare them to.  
"Don't get me wrong, I like Rogers. I do. Good kid. But you really want _me_ to go be the voice of comfort and mercy?" He knows Phillips can't see his raised eyebrow, but he'd lay good money the man can hear it in his voice. "I'm a man of many talents, but shoulder-to-cry-on is just not one of them. I don't know how to manage a basket-case, Phillips."

"Stark, I realize I technically can't actually give you orders, but-"

Howard glances up, distracted, at the familiar click of sensible khaki heels over the tile outside. Salvation is approaching, swathed in military green and a crisp British accent.  
"On second thought, I'll do it." he interrupts. _Sort of._


	67. Chapter 67

Three sharp raps on the door and Agent Carter's face appears in the small frosted window to the hall.

Phillips keeps talking. "Oh, and whatever you do, Stark, don't involve-"

"Call you back later, Colonel." Howard has stopped listening. He juggles the phone away from his face and back into the cradle on the wall.  
"C'mon in, Agent Carter, I was just thinking about you."

Peggy favors him with a very faint and unenthusiastic, crimson-lipped smile. "I shall endeavor to take that as a compliment." she replies evenly, pushing her way into the room. She's carefully holding the door out of her way with one hip, hands full of paperwork. He'd play the gentleman and hold it for her, but she's liable to turn one of those pretty little hands of hers into a fist if he does. Carter's not big on displays of chivalry around here, and -especially- not from him.  
She briskly lays the folders out across the only free table in the room, all business, as usual. "Latest reports from field testing. They need your approval, ideally within the hour."

"Sure thing, be right on 'em." Howard agrees, twirling his pliers idly in his hands for a few moments before tugging the thick glass lenses of his goggles up over his forehead and resting them in slicked-back hair. For lack of anything more productive to do, he fiddles with them. "So... I just heard the bad news."

Peggy's eyes narrow slightly as she straightens up.  
"_What_ bad news?"

"What bad news-?" Howard stares at her, incredulous. "What bad- Barnes is dead!" He realizes as he says it that may not have been a good way to break this information. He wasn't lying when he said he was awful at this kind of thing. Howard Stark has always been a pro with machines, but people… people are complicated. There's a reason he's about to hand this baby off to a professional.  
Carter's face has gone white.  
"Nobody... had told you yet… huh?"

"No… No they did not." Her voice is thinner than usual, but steady as ever. Carter is a hard-edged woman, he'll give her that. "When?"

"Yesterday. Something went wrong on the mission, I don't have details. But… he's definitely dead."

Peggy seems to absorb this a moment, before her dark eyes turn hard and sharp. "And where is Captain Rogers, at present?"

"Colonel didn't say." Howard didn't ask, either. Most likely, given Rogers, nobody really knows. "They'll have landed by now, but that's pretty much all I've got." He shrugs. "If it was _me_, I'd be face down in the biggest bottle of gin I could find..."

"Yes," Peggy says coolly; and there's no malice in her tone, so he takes no offense, "I imagine you would be." She turns on her heel and heads for the door again. "Excuse me, I have urgent matters to attend to."

"Of course." Howard nods. She's almost out the door before he thinks to add, "Good luck, Carter."

Carter glances back, studyingly, as if reevaluating whatever opinion she had previously held of him. Her smile nearly feels genuine, faint and flat as it is.

"Thank you." she says at length, before vanishing behind the swing of the door. Howard honestly isn't sure what part she's thanking him for... but he'll take it.


	68. Chapter 68

_**A/N: Did I say light?... I may have lied.**_

* * *

It takes her a couple of hours to find him, sequestered in what's left of the pub where the Commandos first formed. Rogers _is_ an artist. She's not surprised that he'd seek out such a poetic place to drown his sorrows.  
She's equally unsurprised to find him alone, and morosely staring down into a glass of what looks like top-shelf bourbon.

His bleak, red-rimmed eyes are painfully sober when they turn to her.  
Steve's new metabolism won't allow him to get drunk, though he's clearly been trying valiantly for some time. Erskine had thought that this might be the case, but she highly doubts that he'd expected the circumstances at the time.  
Steve looks utterly shattered sitting there, completely destroyed; hunched over a dirty glass - a study in misery.

Peggy slowly rights a battered, but intact, chair, and pulls it up to the table to join him. Steve barely looks at her. He fell quiet after his initial, miserable greeting, and she can scarcely pry two words from him after that. His face is bitter and disbelieving when she assures him that he did all he could. That none of this is his fault. He asks her tersely if she read the report. She has. She demanded it of a petrified staff sergeant before coming to track him down.  
Steve is convinced she should see his guilt. The blood he imagines staining his hands.  
Peggy is convinced that Steve is erring close to dark and dangerous territory.  
She can see her words aren't making much of a mark on him, at any rate. No matter what she says, he'll blame himself for everything from now to the day he dies. It's just the way he is. Steve has always taken too much responsibility onto his own shoulders, even when they were narrow and thin. Now that he's grown, he seems to think the weight of the entire world belongs balanced there.

She talks gently at him for a while, not entirely sure he's listening, in the dark of the burnt-out bar - set on an empty street, in a deserted block. The desolation is palpable, and she can sense Steve quietly feeding on it. He's harder, sharper, than she's ever seen him. Shrinking in on himself in a way he never has before. The Steve she first met was unassuming perhaps, but his presence was large. There was always a sense that he was too big for his body. Expansive, despite his humility. ...Now, though, he feels collapsed. Sunken. Like a part of him has been drained away.  
So much pain and anger are simmering in him now, it's like they've simply pushed everything else out.

He's going to do something foolish, she realizes grimly. He's going to do something foolish, and nothing she says will prevent it.

"You won't be alone." she tells him softly, futilely, when he swears to lay waste to HYDRA, laying one hand gently over his. Steve stares into the worn wood of the table and nods. He's clearly far away.

For a long moment, they sit this way in the stillness. She studies Rogers across the table, noting how lost he seems. He looks so... incongruously _small_. For all his new bulk, for all his strength, he's just so fragile.  
She can't stand it any longer.

Peggy stands briskly and abandons her chair, moving to his side and pointedly opening out her arms. She meets his startled eyes with authority. Daring him to refuse. Steve blinks for a moment, surprised... but he takes the implied invitation with a visible droop of relief.  
Between one breath and the next, he lurches into her arms with a painful whimper. His face tucks tight down into her shoulder, arms clutched desperately around her waist. He shudders and goes still; taking ragged, heaving breaths that he's trying vainly to quiet. His fingers twitch and bunch in the fabric of her coat as Peggy slowly pets through his hair.  
"You aren't alone." she murmurs soothingly into his scalp. Steve trembles in reply. She lets the damp that's slowly soaking into the collar of her jacket go uncommented upon, and goes on gently stroking his head.

They share a common guilt, Rogers and she. That they could have done more. _Should have_ done more. That they've let this happen.  
Against all logic, they're both so sure that they could have prevented it… somehow.  
The thing is done now, though. There's no fixing the mistake; no turning back.  
Wishing won't raise the dead.

"Not alone." she repeats softly, pushing her own grief and guilt sharply away. She concentrates on holding Steve to her, feeling the warmth of his big hands through her shirt, the little tremors that are passing through the big man in her arms. She refuses to examine her own thoughts. Nothing good nor productive awaits down that path. Right now, Rogers _needs_ her to be solid. Strong. He can't carry himself at the moment, so it falls to her. She will come through.  
Peggy makes herself as much an anchor for him as she can. Murmurs soft, soothing nothings into his ear as he shivers against her shoulder. Focuses on the damp face pressed into her neck, the soft golden hair under her fingers. Lets him tremble and sob silently in her arms, for as long as he needs to.  
She lets him come apart, break down, and just _mourn_ \- at least for a little while.

Things will get worse. The war isn't winding down. If anything, it's winding _up_ for a massive showdown. Steve will be called upon to work more miracles than usual; and he'll do it, even if it bleeds him dry. She knows him too well to believe otherwise.  
There's nothing she can do to shield him from what's coming, but she won't send him out to face it shattered and barely functional. She helped bring him into this. She will help bring him out again.


	69. Chapter 69

Steve is painfully, absently quiet when they return to base. His eyes are dry, and his back is straight, but it's clear he's still reeling by the distracted way he scans his surroundings as he walks. He's barely paying attention, and if there's one thing Peggy's learned about Steve, it's that he's absurdly observant. If Steve isn't taking note of every sound, every little detail… something is very off. He's clearly still somewhere in the Alps just now.  
She allows him to drift as she sets one hand in the small of his enormous back, and steers him gently toward the barracks. Guides him up the stairs, down the hall, and finally sits him down on the edge of his bunk. Steve barely seems to notice where he is or that Peggy is still with him. He simply falls down onto his bottom when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress; dropping more than sitting. She stands against the wall, just watching him for a few moments, and waits.

Peggy will probably pay for this visit. She knows at least a few people saw them coming in, and their stares certainly lingered. That there is something between herself and Captain Rogers is already fairly well known throughout the SSR. Word travels. But this is the first real hint of 'inappropriate' behavior she's allowed to be witnessed.  
She had held her head high and studiously ignored the knowing smirks as she latched the door to Steve's small private room behind herself with threatening finality. That certainly won't stop them, though.  
She already knows there will be gossip and whispering. It was inevitable from the moment she brought him here. There will be rumors flying across the base, and she'll probably be known as The Captain's Whore by lunchtime tomorrow, at the latest. It's just that, frankly, she couldn't care less at this point what anyone thinks of her, or her reputation. Agent Margaret Carter has always been a woman who tolerates no disrespect from her male subordinates, and has been known to speak sharply with her superiors on occasion. Peggy has never been exceptionally popular in a military full of over-inflated men and their fragile egos. She hasn't the time for coddling.  
Honestly, when have tongues ever _not_ wagged senselessly about her? Might as well give them something new to chew over so they don't have to go to the trouble of inventing their usual nonsense.

"Steve?"  
He looks up at her, apparently startled; then seems to rally and consciously draws himself up. So he _had_ forgotten that he wasn't alone. She'd suspected as much. At least now he appears to be listening.  
"We have a briefing with Colonel Phillips in a few hours." she tells him gently. "Are you-"

"Yes." Rogers interrupts; falling abruptly and apologetically silent a moment later. "Sorry… Yes. I'm… I'm up to it. I'm fine."

"You most certainly are not 'fine'." Peggy tells him flatly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. "You are also, quite frankly, a dreadful liar. However, I _am_ willing to believe that you are up to this, so I'll tell the Colonel to expect you."

He nods, apparently lost in thought for a moment. Looks up only as she moves to the door to leave him alone.  
"Peggy?"  
She pauses, turning back.  
"...Thank you."

"Rogers, please don't thank me for being a bare minimum of a decent human being." Peggy sighs. "It makes me feel rather hopeless about the rest of humanity. Besides, I helped put you all here in the first place, if you recall. Hardly something to thank me for." She looks quickly away as a sharp stab of guilt strikes her, thinking unhelpfully of Barnes.

She simply can't help thinking that she ought to have pushed harder to get him to go home - resistent little prat though he was. That she ought to have made the SSR _send _him, if he wasn't willing to be persuaded. This mess was all but inevitable with him here on the front lines, especially as rattled as he'd been. ...Now he's dead and Steve's an utter wreck as a result. Two good soldiers, ruined forever by this _stupid_ bloody war and their own _stupid_ bloody-mindedness.  
This is precisely the sort of thing she'd been dreading, and now here it is, blindsiding them just when things had been going well for the team.  
She thinks of the blood already staining her hands, and wonders how much more there will be before the war is over.  
"Honestly, I'm one of the very last people you ought to be thanking just now... don't you think?"

Steve shakes his head. His voice is rough, but his eyes are finally steady on her. She resists the urge to squirm. "I don't … I don't think I thank you near enough…" he murmurs, almost to himself. He's clearer when he continues.  
"You liked me -just _me_\- even before the serum, even when I was _nobody_... and you've been watching out for me ever since." She opens her mouth to protest this, but the look on his face prevents her. It isn't as if she hasn't _tried_ to do that…. she just made a terrible job of it.  
He hesitates for just a second, sniffling and scruffing discretely at his cheeks. "Bucky-" he winces, "-Bucky used to watch out for me." Steve's mouth twists around the words, and she thinks for a moment that he'll dissolve again, but he keeps going, "Guess …. I guess I always needed it, even if I never said. ...He'd be real glad somebody else took over for him…" A small, bitter laugh slips out and she can almost hear him shattering again inside of it. "He always said I'd be the death of him…" Steve takes in a jagged breath, like he's just keeping himself in check. "Just… never thought he meant literally."  
Peggy's heart breaks a little at the catch in his voice, but he soldiers stubbornly on before she can make up her mind if she ought to comment on it. He's looking intently into her face again, something weary and regretful etching itself over his own; like acid on steel. "So, like I said... thank you." he says, forcing out a weak, miserable little laugh. "There's a lotta me to hold up, if I'm gonna lean on somebody…"

"Don't be ridiculous." Peggy says softly, aware that her eyes are getting just slightly misty, and now may be an excellent time to make a strategic retreat before she sets him going with the tears again. "I swear, I've carried mission reports heavier than you, Rogers." She glances back at him as she quickly opens the door to let herself out. The expression on her face could almost be a smile, if it weren't so weighted down with all the things she hopes he can't read in her face.  
Steve is watching her, expression inscrutable.  
"I can certainly take a little leaning."

* * *

_**A/N: There will be another short delay in the updates for a little while. I haven't got any more chapters ready yet, and I won't have time to write them until next week at the earliest. Don't worry, updates will come eventually!**_


	70. Chapter 70

As the nose of the Valkyrie dips toward the frozen ground, Steve takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then leans all his weight into the steering yoke until it's pressed flat to the dashboard. He fights the controls down into a neck-breaking dive and pins them there. The ship is swiftly picking up speed. This is it. The end.

His mind catches on Peggy, wincing when her panicked voice crackles out into empty static over the radio. It's the last time he'll ever hear that voice, and he misses it already. He's not going to make it back.  
Everything around him begins to vibrate, humming and weightless, as the plane plummets. Not much longer now.  
Steve lets his eyes slip closed for a moment. He knows that he's hurting her… He made Peggy _cry_ \- something he can't recall her ever doing before. Could hear her trying to bite it back so it wouldn't carry in her voice. He hates himself for doing this to her, but there's just no other way. This is how it ends. This is his choice.

He runs his tongue pensively over his bottom lip. The waxy taste of her lipstick still lingers faintly there. Peggy kissed him, for the first and only time, just before he leapt out of Schmidt's car. She'd just grabbed him by the front of his star-spangled uniform as he coiled for the jump and hauled him in, sealing her lips over his and leaving him dizzy and breathless before she was done. Steve had been too stunned to remember where he was for a few moments by the time she let him go, and stared helplessly at the colonel for direction instead. The colonel had just told him to hurry the hell up.

Steve isn't stupid. He knows why she did it; and it wasn't some reckless romantic gesture. Peggy is a rock, measured and steady at all times. She never acts out of desperation. That wasn't a panicked, heat-of-the-moment decision back there. It was a promise. She was illustrating what would be waiting for him when this is all over. Promising a thousand more moments like this. Begging him to be careful and not take his usual crazy risks. Reminding him that there are still people who love him, want him to come home…

And Peggy does love him. He knows that. _Why_, he's not quite sure, but he doesn't dispute the truth. He loves Peggy too. Loves her more than he can ever express, but that's exactly why he can't just go back and pretend to be alright. He has to admit, though, it hurts to realize that he'll never kiss her again. Never even _see_ her again.  
If things had just been different…

But they're not different. He got his best friend killed out here, and he can't go home and pretend like that's not his fault. Pretend that he'll get over it.  
Steve can't take the thought of going back to his old life, no more missions to distract him, no more war to keep him busy, and spending the rest of his life turning around, expecting to find Bucky in the kitchen, or dragging himself, half asleep, out of his creaky old bed in search of coffee. He'd always be looking over his shoulder, always be disappointing himself.

Peggy would see it. She's much too sharp to miss the signs, and he wouldn't be able to keep his grief from her for very long. She'd know he was drowning, and she'd ache for him every day. Try to share his burden and be crushed under it, right alongside him.  
Steve can't be the man she deserves. He never could be, but especially not with Bucky's ghost just over his shoulder. Peggy would never let him suffer alone, but he can't stop hurting and he'll only ruin her life too, if he goes back to her. He won't do that to her.

And _that _doesn't even touch on the nightmares…  
The nightmares are- God... he can't bear even one more night of them.

Steve isn't up to waking panicked, choking on tears, every day for the rest of his life. Sometimes because he dreams that his best friend hasn't really died. Dreams that Bucky comes swaggering back through the door with that crooked smile on his face like nothing happened, cracking wise that it'll take a lot more than that to get rid of him. Steve always wakes up from that one in a cold sweat, suddenly alone, and turns the barracks room upside-down before he can accept that it was just a dream.  
Other times he just finds himself clinging to the side of that train again, wind tearing at his face, and watching Bucky fall. Again. And again. And again. Over and over, until he wakes up screaming and shaking in his bunk. It's been this way since Buck fell.  
The worst part is that none of it is even new; just worse. He's been struggling with night terrors and horrifying dreams since he first saw combat, but he hadn't realized how much more painful they could get.

Steve hasn't had a real night's sleep in months.  
He's exhausted, and heartsick, and ...he just can't _do _this anymore.

The momentum of the rapidly dropping plane is pressing him back in his seat and he knows there can be only seconds before he slams into hard arctic ice. He lets out a slow, steady breath, and braces himself for it.  
This, he can do.

The Valkyrie's impact hurls him bodily out of his seat and hard into the windscreen, cracking the glass into an impressive spiderweb design around the crown of his head. The ship rocks and bucks as it skids, and he pinballs off of the control panel, a wall laced with painfully knobby rivets, the unyielding bulk of the captain's chair, then finally ends up curled around himself on the floor, half under the seat; battered and bloodied, as the massive bird finally grinds to a halt, firmly wedged in the ice.

Slowly, Steve rolls onto his front and crawls gingerly up to his knees. He definitely cracked -possibly broke- a couple of ribs on the steering column. Might've gotten a concussion from breaking the glass with his skull... His right leg burns and won't support weight. He tries to lever himself up - hisses and crumples sideways when there's pressure on his left hand. Teeth clenched, he sinks back against the front of the control box and cradles the arm against his chest. Add a splintered wrist to the list, then.

It won't be long at all now, at least. The plane is badly damaged. It's going to sink and, when it does, he'll go down with it. He surprises even himself with how relieved that makes him; thinking of the impending end. How good it feels to just surrender, to let death come. He's been fighting it all his life, and he's so, _so _tired of fighting.

He could make a bid for freedom, he supposes. Even injured, he could probably crawl to an escape hatch and haul himself out. Drag himself across the ice until his strength gave out, and hope for a rescue team to spot him.  
...But they'd never find him. How could they? He has no idea where he was when he went down, but the plane certainly bounced and skidded as it came down. He's probably miles and miles off course by now. He could go through a lot of pain and struggle to ultimately freeze to death on an ice-floe, or he could just lie here and give up. What's the point in struggling if the end result is the same either way?  
He lets himself slump.  
He chose this. He can accept that it's over.

Feeling a little dizzy, Steve lets his head fall back against the cold metal paneling behind him, closes his eyes, and fumbles for his compass. For a moment, it seems to be lost, but eventually his fingers scuff across the dented case and he drags it to him. He blinks wearly at it. Peggy's picture is still jammed tightly in the lid, no worse for wear from his crash landing. He kisses the tip of one finger and traces it softly over her face.

"G'bye Peggy… I'm sorry."

He stares at her for a long moment until he hears the hull creak, low and ominous, before it fractures violently when the ice shifts. He has only a few minutes left before the cabin floods. Might as well get comfortable...  
He snaps the compass shut with a firm click and tucks it under his uniform in the safest place he can think of. The chilly metal just over his heart is comforting somehow, even if it's giving him goosebumps.  
Weary beyond measure and flat out of willpower, he lets himself slide down the hard, battered panel at his back until he's lying flat-out on the floor. He carefully sets his injured hand protectively over the lump of the compass, cradling it. No one will ever find his body out here, but he'd like to preserve what little he has left of Peggy as best he can. Her image is as safe as he can make it.

Just one more thing to do before he can slip away...  
Fingers trembling, he reaches out and finds his shield, drags it closer to him and lets it rest against his hip. He isn't going to need it now, but it's a familiar comfort to have it close. He can let himself indulge in little comforts now. And why not? How much longer will it matter what he indulges in?  
He sets his head down and closes his eyes, both hands coming to rest gently over the bump of the compass under his clothes, settled in the center of his chest. He's ready to face the end now.

A prickle of frigid cold lances up his spine. There is icey water slowly flowing in around him, burning and numbing his skin as it soaks into his clothes. He shivers, but pays it no real mind. He wonders idly if he'll freeze to death or drown first. It could go either way, at this point. It doesn't really matter, though. The water will fill the cabin soon, and he'll be too dead to care by then.  
He doesn't bother opening his eyes to watch his last moments unfold. He doesn't want to take this part with him into the dark.

_Goodbye Peggy. I'm so sorry_. he thinks again as the edges of his thoughts begin to dim and blur.  
_Bucky... I'm coming. I'll see you soon._

And then everything quietly,slowly, fades away.  
The Valkyrie sinks slowly beneath the ice, and vanishes for 70 years.


	71. Chapter 71

Steve Rogers wakes up what feels like moments later, apparently in the year 2011; confused, disoriented, and more than a little pissed off.

Everyone he knew and loved is dead. Bucky is apparently barely a historical footnote in the grand, obnoxious, commercial fanfare that his life story has become, and the Commandos are so grotesquely misrepresented he can't even get the words '_what the hell?!_' out around his incendiary fury. Even worse, he's not even human to most people. He's a cartoon character. An American legend. He's more myth than man as far as the average folks are concerned.

Oh, and apparently there are fucking aliens trying to take over the Earth.

...An army. of _goddamned_. _aliens… _And _of course_ the reincarnation of the SSR wants him to hop right back in and fight for them. Like this is just another day at the office for him. And worst of all, they're not wrong. What the hell else is he good for?  
Can't even die properly…

And maybe that's it. Maybe death is mad at him now too. Too many times cheating the system, surviving when he shouldn't have made it. Maybe this is payback.  
Hell, life's never been kind to him before, why would it start now?

He stares at the dull beige wall in the big, yawningly empty one-bedroom number they've given him since he thawed out, and tries to reconcile everything that's happened. Tries to wrap his head around it all.

...Why couldn't they just let him stay dead?

* * *

_**A/N: END OF PART I - TFA**_

_**Part II will cover 'The Avengers'**_


	72. Chapter 72

PART 2 - _**Battle Scars**_

_(THE AVENGERS)_

* * *

**A/N: Whew, it's been a little while since I updated. I've got several chapters written for Part 2, and I'll be writing more as I have time, so there shouldn't be TOO bad of a lag for the time being as we pick back up. Enjoy. (And I apologize now for what I'm about to do your emotional well-being.)**

* * *

_**1945 - Location Unknown**_

Bucky comes around slowly, vaguely aware that everything hurts. His head feels like it's full of lead and his limbs feel jointed wrong. He blinks, but his eyes won't focus and his stomach heaves with weary resignation. It has clearly been doing so for quite a while, with or without his conscious participation. There's nothing left to bring up, but his body keeps trying valiantly nonetheless. It's almost inspirational, how determined it is.  
There is drying sick matted against one side of his face, and he can smell it in the air as awareness slowly coalesces over him. The acrid, pungent scent lingers like a fog. It almost masks the smell of blood that is, presumably, also coming from him. It _also_ helps explain why he's dumped halfway onto his side; seems someone was trying to keep his airway clear while he threw up anything and everything left in him.

That thought brings with it an awful realization that sets a shivering chill through what little of him isn't already overloaded with pain. Whoever took him from the bottom of that canyon floor _really_ wants him alive. Otherwise why not just let him choke to death on his own vomit? ...Or just leave him where he lay in the first place?

Taking a critically wounded man prisoner is all but unheard of in war… It's a lot of work for a negligible reward. Most of the time, badly wounded prisoners die; they just aren't worth the expense of their care. Merciful enemies finish the doomed men off quickly, and leave the body for the deceased's allies to find. The less merciful leave them to bleed out where they lay. ….No one collects them like drift-wood and carries them home. Considering what happened the _last_ time Bucky was captured… A sharp spike of fear harpoons him, and he can't quite decide if this is better or worse than being left to die of exposure out there…

The truck he's been dumped into lurches sharply over a stretch of uneven road, and he slides across the floor to slam sidelong against a wall. His vague awareness of pain suddenly turns sharp and blisteringly immediate. He chokes on a wheezing gasp and a loud, miserable groan slips out before he can stop it.  
There is activity around him the instant he makes a sound. Rough hands haul him back from the wall, and someone none-too-gently grabs his chin and yanks it up to look him over. What they're looking for, he couldn't say. Maybe they find it. Maybe they don't. The hand shoves his face away a moment later. No one is talking to him.  
Someone barks what sounds like an irritated order over his head, in a language he can't understand, and then there's the unmistakeable pin-prick of a needle breaking skin. A cold shudder accompanies the sensation even as the rest of the world swims out of focus again.  
He slips back into the dark.

* * *

_**A/N:  
**__**As a formatting reference - Part 2 will take a sliiiiightly different approach than Part 1 did. I'll be splicing bits of Bucky's story in now and then with Steve's as we go along. Steve's story will still take precedence, but Bucky will be making appearance every so often, at least for a while.**_


	73. Chapter 73

_What's that weird grinding noise?_

Hazy eyes blink open to a surging, bright, and burning pain in what remains of his left arm - not to say that much remains. When he finally manages to straggle his blurry gaze in the right direction, there is a tiny worn-out looking bone-saw biting into his arm, slicing the tattered mess of flesh and shattered bone off clean at the shoulder.  
He's probably not really meant to be awake for this, but whatever they gave him in the truck is wearing off. He almost wishes they'd knock him out again, as terrifying as it is not to know what they're doing to him, just so he could be spared seeing this.  
With mounting horror, he watches the bloody muscle fibers slowly give way, chips of bone flying in wide arcs as the saw skips and tears its way through.

His eyes widen sluggishly and he tries to struggle, to jerk away from whoever is doing this, to _run_ -panic flooding his veins; but his body won't respond. He can't move an inch. Not so much as a single weak twitch results from the wildfire of raw fear that's blazing through him. The scream that's rising in his chest stays trapped there, building like steam. A thin wailing sound is all that escapes.  
Someone's head twists to study him at the sudden noise, apparently alarmed. When he fails to move or struggle, the person wielding the saw relaxes again, and goes on about their business, ignoring him. They know he's awake. There was eye-contact. No one cares.  
The blurry shape of a person with the saw starts to hum and he realizes with a start that it's a woman. … A cheerful woman at that. The disconnect only makes the horror that much more palpable.  
They don't bother putting him under again.

Tears of agony, frustration, and fear linger on his cheeks by the time the amputation is done. Bucky feels ragged and exhausted. He's terrified, his left side is on fire, and he still can't move. A rough bandage is cinched over the raw nub of what was once an arm, and he squeezes his eyes shut around a searing wave of fresh pain as they snug it into place. They're not making any effort to be gentle with him, that's for sure.

He has no way to gauge how much time has passed, as disoriented as he is, but it feels like several hours at least. The dull tinking of metal tools in a steel sink echoes in the small space, somewhere off to his left. There is more tuneless humming as the plumbing shrieks and splashing water joins the background noise. Bucky's head is heavy and swimming. Every nerve in his body screams for relief that won't come. The noise it makes in his brain is deafening.

Two more people approach from somewhere across the room. There is some discussion, apparently about what to do with him. His captors argue quietly for a while before finally opting to leave their prisoner where he is, strapping him down to the frigid metal table. Someone tosses a sheet over him, almost as an afterthought. They are still conversing lightly amongst themselves as the three of them troop out and shut off the lights. The sound of a heavy deadbolt sliding home thuds ominously in the still room. None of them bother glancing back.

Bucky closes his eyes in the dark, and tries vainly to sleep. He's too weak to struggle.

* * *

_**A/N: We'll be back to Steve in the next chapter.**_


	74. Chapter 74

_**2012 - Washington D.C. (two weeks after thawing)**_

Pushing his way past two big glass double-doors and through a small, tastefully decorated lobby, Steve finally finds the small block of offices that he's been after all day. There's a petite brunette with immaculate nails manning the huge, sleek wooden desk that dominates the space - neatly situated between two shiny, silver elevator doors. A couple of thick books with titles like "_War in America" and "The Cap Effect" _sit in a haphazard pile at her elbow. The woman is just wrapping up a phone call, accompanied by some irritated sounding clicking around on her computer screen. He waits politely until she's done.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" A distracted acknowledging noise as the brunette frowns thoughtfully at her screen. "I'm looking for the director of the Captain America exhibit."  
The woman at the desk nods, barely glancing at him. Her frown deepens slightly and she makes a correction to whatever she's been typing, then reads over it again.

"Do you have an appointment, sir? Dr. Hanson is very-" her eyes shift disinterestedly toward him, and she falls abruptly silent when they land roughly in the middle of his chest instead of his face. Slowly, they scan upward until she's looking him in the eye, growing wider and wider as they go. There's a stunned-looking blink and another long silence. "- ...busy…"  
Her dark brown eyes have goggled to roughly the size of baseballs and she's openly staring at him, pretty clearly gobsmacked.

Steve pretends not to notice.  
"I don't have an appointment, no, but I'd really like to talk to him anyway. Could you get him, please?"

"I-I don't… I can't-" she founders impressively for a moment, then seems to rally. "_**Are you Steve Rogers?!"**_ The receptionist, -he glances at her name-plate: _Ms. Tamera Sutherland-_ blurts out. She flushes immediately, looking mortified as soon as the words are out. Her eyes quickly drop into her lap and stay there.

Steve stifles a sigh. He should be used to this, but his patience just isn't what it used to be. "Yes ma'am." he grates out, trying not to sound as irritable as he feels. "That's me."

Dark eyes flick back up to study him. The frown is back.  
"... Forgive me, but… you're dead."

This time he does sigh. _Right…_. He keeps forgetting that, technically, he's a ghost at this point. … If the SSR files are accurate, he has been for almost 75 years.  
"Not exactly..."

Ms. Sutherland's eyes slowly narrow as she looks him over, suspicious, and her lips purse.  
"What was your mother's maiden name?" she asks suddenly, one hand shifting unconsciously to her hip. She looks a little like a scolding church lady when she does that, and he wonders idly if she realizes it.

"... O'brien…" he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"When was she born?"

Steve makes a frustrated noise. "Look, ma'am, that's really none of your-"

Ms. Sutherland cuts him off sharply with, "If you don't even know when Sarah Rogers was born, I can't let you-" and he has to admit, he admires her nerve, even if she's annoying the living daylights out of him right now.

Steve decides to just play along. What does it matter? His mother's been dead for close to 100 years, anyway. It's not like the information is all that private anymore.  
"My mother was born on April 19th, 1897." he says promptly, before Ms. Sutherland can really wind up a temper. She seems to stumble on his sudden candor and goes quiet, apparently trying to recollect her thoughts.

For a moment, in his mind's eye, Steve can see a slight blonde woman in a faded grey sundress, looking out their tiny, dirty window into the early spring morning. She turns to him and smiles, declaring that it was going to be a wonderful birthday. A thin hand ruffles affectionately through his hair.  
She said that same thing, 'it's going to be a wonderful birthday', every year like clockwork … at least up until the the year that she died. That year, she really hadn't said much. Just held his hand in withered fingers, squeezed with whatever strength she had left, and told him to be a good boy when she was gone.

A tiny ache swells into being inside his chest, but he pushes it down.

"Ma was the youngest girl of eight kids. Married my dad when she was 20, had me when she was 21. She passed two weeks before I turned 18. I remember 'cause she was trying so hard to make it 'til after my birthday." The eyebrow arcs just a little higher, and he swears he doesn't _mean_ to sound bitter when he says, "I can tell you her favorite color or what perfume she wore on Sundays if you want, but I'm not sure that's relevant."  
Sutherland's mouth is hanging open now, and he can't quite tell if the look on her face is shock, delight, or both.  
"Can I see Dr. Hanson now, please?"


	75. Chapter 75

"Dr. Hanson? Captain Rogers is here to see you. He says it's very important."

His breathless receptionist is peering around the doorway when Doug Hanson -the head curator of the Captain America exhibit- looks up from his paperwork. Tammy's curly brown hair wisps lightly after her face as she jerks her head toward the lobby, dark eyes wide, and silently mouths _it's Captain -fucking- America!_

He blinks at her, trying to process that, and comes up empty.  
Tammy Sutherland is a smart young woman, and she's been the full-time admin assistant and receptionist for his office for the past four years. Tammy started as an American History grad student on work-study roughly -forever- ago, and she did her goddamn _graduate_ _thesis_ about Captain America's impact on the country, and how we approach war and international conflict. She's been working tirelessly on an application for a Research Librarian position in the Library of Congress for the last several weeks.  
The thing is, Tammy is bright. She knows the history on this subject backward and forwards… so she knows _precisely_ why that's not possible.  
What could shake her up enough to fall for such an obvious prank?

"Tammy…" He starts gently, setting down the paper in his hand, "Captain America is _dead_. You know that. He died decades ago-"

"-Actually...," A sardonic-sounding blonde man's head suddenly appears above Tammy's shoulder, startling them both, and Hanson has to do a double-take.  
He glances between the framed Time magazine cover over his desk (July of 1944), and the man in his doorway. His mouth goes dry. _Holy __**hell**__, it IS him… _"-I just took a really, really long nap." the man who can only be Captain America finishes with a shrug.

The Captain has the bearing of a man who'd rather be just about anywhere else, as he carefully wedges himself through the doorway around Tammy and approaches the desk. He stiffly holds out one hand to Doug at waist level. "Steve Rogers, Captain America, former Howling Commando." Is it his imagination, or did that sound just a _tiny_ bit petulant? "Nice to meet you." It comes out sounding like the Captain would rather be having a root-canal.

Hanson stares between the extended hand and his assistant's face, waiting for her to let him in on the joke. Any minute now, she'll crack up and this guy will pull off his mask or whatever and-  
and…  
and…  
And, no... this is really happening.  
After a few seconds without any hidden cameras bursting out of his filing cabinet, he stands dazedly and takes Rogers' extended hand, pumping it perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The Captain looks like he's trying hard not to sigh.

"It's… it's an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers… Please, make yourself comfortable…" Doug quickly indicates a padded chair just in front of his desk. Rogers doesn't even glance at it.

Hanson looks back at Tammy, who seems exceedingly pleased with herself ...and like she's about to vibrate out of her skin with excitement.  
_**TOLD**_ _YOU!_ Tammy mouths triumphantly, smirking just a little tartly at him, before turning to cast a radiant smile at Rogers. "If you need _anything_ else, Captain, I'll be at the front desk where you found me. Don't even hesitate to ask."

The tall man nods and gives her a wan smile back, and then Tammy's vanishing back out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Rogers continues to pointedly ignore the chair that's directly to his left, so Doug doesn't sit either.

"I'd like to talk to you about the exhibit you have up about me right now." Rogers informs him flatly when he turns back, arms crossing firmly over his chest like he's expecting a fight on this. The man's back is ramrod straight and his massive shoulders are crisply squared beneath a neat khaki jacket.  
The curator swallows hard, thoroughly intimidated. Living history is standing in front of his desk - and it looks pissed. "Yes. ...Right. Of course."  
He fumbles out a note-pad and a pen and slaps them down on the surface of his desk, wincing a little as the awkwardly loud noise echoes around his uncomfortably silent office. "So… uh… W-what did you think?" And if there's a hint of hopeful pride and just a the tiniest bit of fishing for praise laced into his voice? Well, he worked hard on this. What of it?

"Um… well, honestly-" Rogers looks exceedingly uncomfortable for a moment. "- It's awful." he says, his hard stance breaking down a little. He reaches up to rub a hand awkwardly up and down the back of his neck.  
Hanson resists the urge to stare. His entire world just shattered in the space of that sentence, and here's _Captain -fucking- America_ is making an 'aw gee shucks' gesture in his office. Does Captain America even _do _that?! He swallows hard again. The thin note-pad in front of him suddenly seems very, very inadequate.

"I… I see." There's a long, uncomfortable pause, during which neither of them speak. "Could you… I mean… what's wrong with it? Did we leave something out? I know some of the photos are old and grainy, but-"

"It's not just the photos-" Rogers interrupts quickly, "although ...it's definitely weird seeing my baby pictures behind a glass case…" The Captain's hand is still fidgeting with the nape of his neck and Doug is near mesmerized by the motion. "But you got everything really _wrong_-" Rogers breathes out in a huff. "Just… _everything_."

"Oh." The curator sets his pen down and tries to remember how to breathe properly. He's just been told -twice now- that his life's work is a failure, -by his life-long idol, no less, _and_ the subject of his PHD …Yeah, he can totally handle this.

… He's handling this.  
… He's not melting down. He's _not_.  
Not in front of _Captain America_ he's not.

"You alright?" Rogers has stopped fidgeting and is now leaning a little bit over the desk, looking concerned.

… Nope, nope he was wrong. He can't handle this. -But he can maybe salvage it.

Hanson clears his throat.  
"Captain, I apologize for any mistakes we've made in our representation. We did our best with the information that was available, but there was so much propaganda surrounding you and your command and-" He stops himself from whining and defending before he _really _manages to embarrass himself, and changes course. "Is there - ahem- is there any way I could convince you to help me bring our information up to date and fill in some blanks for us? To correct whatever we got wrong? I'd certainly like our exhibit to be as accurate as possible, and you'd... be a huge help…" He trails off. Rogers is smiling.

...Sort of.

Rogers' lips have definitely quirked up one one side and his eyes have softened slightly. There's a hard, bitter edge that never quite leaves his face, but he doesn't look pissed anymore, so that's progress.

"Sir," -and yeah, the weak proto-smirk thing is widening into a very thin smile. "I would be happy to do _exactly_ that. Do you have some time right now?"

Doug immediately has Tammy clear absolutely everything else on his schedule for the afternoon. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and he does _not_ want to be interrupted.

* * *

_**A/N: Awww, look at Steve. Already making new friends in the future. ... Sorta.**_


	76. Chapter 76

**_A/N: Happy New Year, kids. Here's a nice big upload of angsty goodness. Something to see you into 2015 :) (Again, I apologize for the emotional scars you are about to receive)_**

* * *

_**1945 - Location Unknown**_

There are more surgeries. He's awake for some, blurry and drugged for others - when he starts to jerk and fight against the restraints. He's probably out cold for still more of them, but there's no way to know.  
He doesn't know how long it's been since he fell. With no windows, it's hard to gauge how much time passes when he sleeps or just loses consciousness for a while. He imagines that it must have been days by now. Maybe weeks… he can't tell.  
They don't give him anything for the pain. He didn't really expect them to.

* * *

Once, he surfaces from the haze long enough to hear someone with a thick accent speaking clumsy German. He realizes dizzily that it's a phone-call when there's a long pause before the voice speaks again.

*****"Ja, Sir , wir sind sicher, dass er es ist." Another short pause. "Sie wollen, dass wir weitermachen?" A pen scratches busily on paper. "Ja gut. Erhöhen Sie die Dosierung?"  
This time the pause is lengthy. He almost thinks they've hung up when the voice speaks again. "Verstanden. Wir werden weitere Aufträge zu erwarten. Heil HYDRA."

Bucky's never had been as good with the language as Jones is, but he knows enough German to understand the gist of what was said. ...And that they've been pumping him full of a lot more than sedatives. A horrible realization rises and bursts like a bubble over him.

_They're still testing the serum... These sick assholes are finishing what Zola started.  
_He flinches instinctively at the name, like he expects the beady spectacled eyes to be watching him.  
_Zola…  
_Zola spoke German to his underlings in that lab. Zola was still on the loose when he fell. There's no telling where that evil little fucker is now...  
_He found me again, _Bucky thinks, eyes involuntarily going wide as footsteps make a leisurely approach from the next room. _Please god, tell me they didn't get Steve too…_

"Sergeant Barnes." A man looms over him in a white coat. It isn't Zola but it may as well be. Barnes swallows thickly and doesn't let himself look away. He won't give this bastard the satisfaction. He wishes he had the strength to spit right in their smug face, but maybe he'll get his chance later. The man doesn't appear to notice the murderous look in Bucky's eyes, or maybe he just doesn't care.  
"So nice to officially meet you. Your cooperation is appreciated."  
The man smiles serenely down as he stabs a needle into Bucky's thigh and the world spirals away into emptiness again.

* * *

***Translation: **

_Yes sir, we're sure it's him. Do you want us to continue?_

_Yes, good. Increase the dosage?_

_Understood. We will await further orders. Hail HYDRA._


	77. Chapter 77

_**2012 - Washington D.C.**_

They cover Steve's fateful flight on the Valkyrie and his abrupt reawakening 75 years later, right off the bat; largely because Hanson won't shut up about it until they do. Steve explains that he's not really allowed to give the museum Director Fury's contact information to ask more questions, but he might be able to convince the Director to contact them instead. His own doubt on that front must carry in his voice, because Hanson is quick to assure him that that won't be necessary.  
Once the 'how' of Steve's unexpected survival is squared away, they get to the crux of the biggest thing Steve had hated about the exhibit: the godawful, bullshit representations of Morita and Fallsworth - and the utter _lack_ of representation for Jones.

Morita is, for some bizarre reason, treated like a whiney, chicken-shit agitator. Every disagreement the team ever had is somehow attributed to him. There are even suggestions that the other Commandos secretly loathed him; and Steve is absolutely seeing red the first time he reads _that_.  
He can't even _count_ how many times Jim saved his life - how many times he saved the lives of the entire team. The Commandos worked as a unit. They protected each other each and every day in the field. There _were_ no bad eggs in the bunch.  
The exhibit even goes so far as to describe Morita as being 'shifty' in one panel, and 'difficult' in another. Steve is breathing fire by the time he's done addressing _that_.

The rotten depiction starts to make more sense a little later, after he does some reading about Jim's post-war life, and the activism he got involved in. It's no wonder people wanted to discredit him.  
Jim Morita was never one to be quiet about what he thought and he didn't take discrimination lightly. He'd have made himself heard, and the powers-that-be obviously hadn't much liked what he'd had to say.

Steve doesn't give a good goddamn what the powers-that-be like. He makes sure the Smithsonian team knows _exactly_ how damned brave and resourceful Jim was; how well loved and respected by his brothers in arms. He makes them scrub every nasty, gossipy word about Morita out of the exhibit before he's satisfied. And he makes sure they include every sincere, honest fact that he gives them instead.  
"Go talk to any of the Commandos or their families if you don't believe me!" becomes a refrain. He realizes too late that there aren't any other Commandos left alive for the museum to talk to.  
Fury already told him that his team has long sinced passed away… it just hasn't sunk in quite yet.

At least Fallsworth's depiction isn't so much malicious, as just… flat and incomplete. The man is portrayed about as dry and as boring as a saltine cracker - and that just ISN'T Monty. James Fallsworth was a serious man, but he was also sharp and clever, with incredible integrity, courage, and a wickedly sly sense of humor. Monty was an amazing man and a better friend, as well as an absolutely vital part of the Commandos. Steve will happily destroy anybody who wants to try and convince him otherwise.

Hanson, wisely, quickly stops making weak protests in favor of his inaccurate facts and just starts scribbling frantic notes instead, while Steve talks him through the (myriad) mistakes around the Commando's portion of the exhibit hall.

For reasons Steve can pretty easily guess, they've got next to nothing about Jones on display at all. He's in the background of a couple of photos and his name's on the team's roster - mounted on a small brass plaque near the door- but beyond that he may as well not have existed at all. There is no mention of his lengthy service. No mention of his unflinching loyalty and courage. No mention of the vital field-medic skills he brought with him, which saved everyone on the team's lives at least once, at some point or other. No mention _at all_ of him successfully completing that last fateful mission in the Alps, despite Steve's utter failure to do so, and his steady presence helping to ground the team after the loss of Sergeant Barnes.  
Steve is absolutely appalled.

He's apoplectic with the entire mess, honestly; a sight which is apparently pretty damned intimidating. Once he gets going, nobody argues with him - though one intern lets out a frightened squeak when he starts ranting at full volume, and he has to forcefully remind himself to bring it down a notch. These people didn't know any better when they set this farce up, and his scaring the hell out of them isn't really helping... even if it IS a little cathartic.

There are at least twenty-six pages of notes before he's quite done complaining about the absolutely ridiculous exclusions, though, and he adds with barely restrained anger, that he expects them to _find some good goddamn photos of __**all**_ _of the Commandos to put up in here. _And they'd better stop kissing his ass and focus on his team _because they did most of the goddamned work_! He didn't win the fucking war _by himself,_ for god's sake! These puny and/or blurry newspaper shots are _not_ doing it.

Hanson nods meekly along the entire time, brow furrowed, writing and writing and writing until he's bound to get a cramp. Ms. Sutherland, his assistant, follows along with a tablet aimed steadily at Steve, soaking up every word with rapt interest. She refused to be left out of this, once she caught wind of what they were doing, and neither Steve nor Dr. Hanson really wanted to fight her about it. Steve respects a lady with grit, and Hanson is just too bowled over to fight _anybody_ at the moment. Some poor sucker new-hire apparently drew the short-straw to watch the front desk while she's away. He was amusing himself with some little pocket gadget the last Steve saw him, typing furiously on it. He doesn't much care what about.

Steve glances back at Ms. Sutherland, who looks like a little kid at Christmas. He's pretty sure at this point that he could bellow in her face, and as long as it was about the Commandos, she wouldn't even blink.  
He's not really sure how the 'tablet' thing she's carrying works, but he takes the curator's word for it when he explains it's recording everything he says and does, just like a camera. Why not? Steve's in the future. Sure, he'll buy that this thin slab of … _whatever_ metal that is- with a little screen set in it, can capture all of his ranting.  
Fine.  
Great.  
Whatever gets this travesty fixed faster, he'll run with it.

Surprisingly, the museum actually didn't do too badly with Dugan or Dernier. He adds a few fairly minor notes about both men, corrects a couple of inaccurate facts, and then turns his attention to the monumental task of fixing Bucky's sorely lacking mention - a subject which will be a rant in and of itself.

Bucky, who is loosely acknowledged as Steve's close friend from childhood in a very small plaque near the exit. Who is in the foreground of several pictures, but is barely spoken of aside from a name, an age, a rank, and a label of 'the team's sniper, Sgt. James B. Barnes'. Bucky, who amounts to a handful of (woefully inaccurate) facts on a small, dingy poster behind grubby plexiglass in a forgotten corner. Who is really only talked about in any detail as the only other Commando known to die during the war. They have a little "R.I.P" plaque and some dusty fake flowers mounted on the wall beside a small newspaper clipping of Bucky's obituary from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.  
They don't even try to capture Bucky's charm, his brains, or his courage. They definitely don't mention the personal hell he fought through to be where he could watch Steve's back… though Steve's not really sure that part is anybody's fucking business but his and Bucky's.

The exhibit doesn't acknowledge anywhere how invaluable Bucky was to the Commandos, nor especially how invaluable he was to _Steve_. How much he supported, guided, and protected Steve out there. How Steve Rogers wouldn't have entered combat at all if he hadn't been looking for his best friend, missing in action. How Rogers really came into his own as Captain America when he raided that Hydra compound in Azzano, hell-bent on finding Bucky.  
Most astonishingly, they seem to have that _particular_ act of rebellion down as an authorized 'secret SSR rescue mission'. As if he had full approval -even implying he had _orders-_ for his one-man suicide assault. Steve actually breaks into a dark chuckle at the thought and shakes his head.  
Colonel Phillips would be turning in his grave if he could see that nonsense.  
… Probably after giving Rogers hell for failing to report after the crash of the Valkyrie. A hard-ass through and through, that guy.

Steve shrugs off the now-familiar cold, disconnected feeling that forms in his belly and rubs wearily at the bridge of his nose to ground himself. He's been thinking a lot about Phillips lately.  
He hopes the colonel did alright after the war. There isn't a whole lot of mention of him once S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded, and Steve has no idea what happened to the man. There's nobody he can shout at to get answers, that's for sure - the information simply isn't there. He looked. He has little choice but to let it go and hope that no news is good news...

This exhibit however… that he can man-handle a bit. That he can fix.  
Most everything in here is Steve, Steve, Steve. Or more accurately: it's all about Captain America.  
That's going to change.

"Dr. Hanson," he says, pausing in front of a grainy group photo of the Howling Commandos, his eyes lingering on his best friend's black-and-white face, "Let me tell you about Sergeant James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes." He feels his face creasing into a wan, bitter-sweet smile as he glances back over his shoulder. "...You might want to grab a bigger notebook first."


	78. Chapter 78

_**1945 - Location Unknown**_

They've started keeping him in a cell, now that his body is more or less repaired. He can stand under his own power again, and even walk shakily from one end to the other if he's so inclined.  
He rarely is.  
He's not sure yet why they're working so hard to nurse him back to health, because it's sure as hell not out of concern for his well being. It's making his skin crawl, just sitting in here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky stands beside the plank of rough wood that they've labeled a bunk, his one hand braced against the wall for balance, and stares up at the ceiling, taking stock of what he knows. Things fade in and out of clarity alarmingly when he tries to pin his thoughts down, though the heavy feeling in his brain has finally subsided. He can focus if he really puts his mind to it, but the splitting headaches that follow are almost enough to deter him from trying.  
He wishes there was more he could be sure of. He must've hit his head something spectacular back there, but at least it didn't _completely _scramble his noggin...

His name is at least still clear. James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky among friends. He'll kill anyone here that calls him that. He's a Sergeant, captured before - and tortured. A sliver of a horrified shudder marks that memory and he doubts it'll ever fade. (_Of course_ the memory he least wants is the most resilient. Why the hell not?)  
He's knows he's a marksman for the US Army… or… at least he was. Bucky glances down at the short stump of what was his left arm. Not likely he'll be doing much sniping after all this. Can't aim worth a damn with one hand.  
He knows he was wounded when he fell from somewhere up high, but he can't quite pin down where or how that happened. Someone was screaming his name as he tumbled head over ass. Someone important. His skull blossoms with scarlet arcs of pain anytime he thinks about it too hard. He'll come back to that one.

The thing that stands out the clearest in his mind is Steve. Thank god he can still remember that little shit. Or… _well no_, he reminds himself, _Steve's a big bastard now._ He lets himself indulge in a moment of pride about Steve before moving on.  
Steve is safe somewhere because of Bucky. He's pretty sure he remembers that thought etching itself firmly across his brain as he fell. It's like a brand in his memory. Steve survived. As bad as things are here, that's important. He did his job. Now he's just gotta wait for Steve to find him and get him out of here… wherever the hell 'here' is.

It never occurs to him that Steve might not know where to look, or that he should be looking at all. Bucky's mind glides tractionlessly over the idea that, to his friends, he's a dead man. Somehow faith in Steve Rogers just comes so naturally. Instinctively. Barnes was rescued before when everything seemed hopeless. He _will _be rescued again; he just has to hold out until then.

* * *

The man in the labcoat has come back, this time bringing a little wooden stool with him. He shuts the door, nodding at the two black-uniformed guards outside, and sits down in the middle of the cell, serenely crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his knee.  
"Sergeant Barnes, I have a question for you."

" 'Answer's 'fuck off'." Bucky snorts, settling himself gingerly on the edge of the hard 'bunk' they've given him. It has no bedding, but it's something to sit on. He glares at the man across from him. A sedate smile is his answer.

"Come now, that's no attitude to take. Let us all cooperate with one another. You know what we can do first-hand, do you not?"  
This fucker speaks pretty good English, Bucky notices. His accent is definitely thick, but he's not struggling with the words like the guards usually do when they shout orders into the cell.

Barnes lets out a dark chuckle in answer and waves the inch-and-a-half nub of his left arm at the man. "Got news for ya', fucker. _You_ didn't do this. Gravity's a real bitch sometimes, huh? I ain't scared of you assholes."

"Oh removing a limb is so barbaric and simple." That damned creepy smile just won't go away. It's giving him a chill. "No, I think your time with Dr. Zola should have given you a little taste of what resistance will buy you."

Bucky feels a tiny shudder start up at the base of his spine. He pushes it away. He could pretend to cooperate, of course. Feed them false intel... but he has the feeling they'd catch on pretty quick. This guy seems canny and eerily observant. Bucky doubts he'd be able to get much past him.

Barnes smirks sardonically. Maybe it's good that his head's all mush lately. He couldn't tell them anything useful even if he wanted to. "I ain't the code guy or the plans guy. Sorry, fucker. Nothin' interesting in here." Bucky taps his own forehead with two fingers. "All I can tell ya is name, rank, and serial number." He bears his teeth in a predatory smile of his own. "Ask Zola how good I am at tellin' that."

"Oh don't be silly, Sergeant." The bastard just sounds amused. "We don't need battle plans or secret codes from you." he flaps a hand dismissively. "We can get that information anytime we wish, and from a far more reliable source." The man's face tips slightly, as if considering something interesting. "I see you haven't heard the good news then."  
He takes Bucky's smolderingly defiant silence as confirmation. His smile is like ice.  
"Captain America is dead. I was going to ask if you knew."

Bucky's mouth falls open, in spite of himself. The serene smile across from him widens just a fraction.


	79. Chapter 79

_**2012 - Washington D.C.**_

They end up having to retreat to Hanson's office for this, when the note-pad he's been toting thus far ends up in fact being nowhere near up to the task of absorbing the tidal-wave of stories and random factoids that flow out of Steve as he warms to his subject.

Steve finally accepts the proffered seat in front the curator's desk when it's offered again, this time with none of his earlier frosty edge. He waits while Hanson sets up what he calls a 'laptop', (apparently a miniature computer - he _is_ in the future, Steve reminds himself again-) and fusses around with it for a few minutes.

"...Alright, there we are. You were just saying something about Sergeant Barnes' marksmanship?"

"Right, well Bucky was a sniper. The best damn sniper in the US Army, and I'm not the only one who'll tell you that. He always had a really sharp eye, even as a kid, and real steady hands. Could hit a fly at 100 yards - and he did a couple times, just to show up anybody that didn't think he could do it."  
A rapid tempo of click-click-click-clack rises from the little flat keyboard across from him as the curator's fingers fly over it. Steve tunes out the noise, turning the memory over in his mind, examining it from every angle.  
"Buck didn't think much of the Army's basic marksmanship training. Thought they glossed over too much, didn't teach you anything but which end to point at the enemy and how to pull a trigger without hurting yourself. He made us all practice with him when there was downtime, the stubborn bastard..." He hears the warm, well-worn affection seeping into his voice, and Hanson apparently does too, given the way the clicking slowly dies off and the hands still over the keyboard. There's a brief, heavy lag in the air between them. Steve just doesn't have the energy to push through it.

"He _made_ you all practice?" the curator says at length, apparently just for something to say, resting his hands beside his computer thoughtfully. "Even though at least two members of your team outranked him?"

Steve chuckles just a little in spite of himself, and settles back in his seat. He finds he loves talking about Bucky, even if it hurts like a fish-hook is buried in his sternum, slowly tearing it out through the skin. He might still be a little messed up - but to be fair, it's been… what a couple weeks? A month? ...At least for him, it has been… He figures it's fair if the wound is still a little raw.  
Steve keeps having to remind himself that his best friend has been dead for close on a century, and it's like a shot of ice-water in the face every time.

"Well... we were a little different than your average Army unit. We got the job done, and as long as we did, the brass pretty much left us alone. We ended up making a lot of our own rules. Technically I was in charge, but none of the guys let me get too full of myself. Bucky especially. He was stubborn to a fault, and the guy was a born leader, so we really didn't argue with him much. He said you were gonna practice sharpshooting? You picked up your gun and you practiced 'til he said you were done."

The clacking is back. "Did you improve?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. Practice definitely didn't hurt our skills any. None of us could ever match Buck for raw talent, but he worked us until we were as close as we could get. Christ, he loved being the best at something. Loved teasing me about it, too. Was nice to see him having a little fun..." He hears his own voice catch and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat that's threatening to choke him. "There… uh… there wasn't much chance to enjoy yourself in a war zone…"

And Steve honestly means to move on. He means to let this story drop and talk about something a little more neutral, but his brain is stuck on the memory now. The familiar scene suddenly stretches out before him like he was standing up to his knees in it.

It's 1944, cold and damp, deep in a forest in the backwoods of northern Austria. They've already blown a factory to hell down by Salzburg and rooted out every HYDRA agent for miles around them. Now it's just a matter of waiting for extraction. Stark is supposed to be picking them up by plane tomorrow morning, but at the moment they've got hours to kill and nothing productive to do. Naturally, Bucky's on him immediately to practice sniping, since they've got the time.

Steve peels himself up from his half-rotted log beside the campfire, muttering about slave-drivers while the other snicker behind their mugs of bitter, watered-down coffee. Bucky pops him lightly upside the head and tells him to quit bitching and move his super-powered ass before the sun goes down and they lose their light. The snickering grows into muffled chuckles, and Dugan's face is going red. There are tears in the big man's eyes from trying to hold back the booming laughter he's so notorious for.  
Steve just rolls his eyes, picks up his rifle, and follows Buck off into the trees, still muttering.

"Jerk-ass…"

"Pansy." Bucky calls back cheerfully. He doesn't miss it when Steve flips him the bird, but the two of them tromp companionably through the sloppy mud for a ways more, until Bucky holds out an arm and signals him to stop.  
"Yeah, this'll do just fine." He turns and points into the distance. "See that patch'a weeds down there? Aim for the big one in the middle."

"... That's 100 yards away, Buck."

Bucky smirks lazily, his own gun set casually against his shoulder. "What, you think _Captain America_ can't make a nice, easy shot like that? Ain't even moving. It's not that hard, Steve-o."

Steve sighs and settles himself obediently into a low crouch, feeling the muck squelching around his boots as he steadies the rifle in his hands and sights the distant husk of plant stalk carefully.  
He tries to do what Bucky keeps telling him to: _fire between breaths, clear your mind, focus on nothing but your target until you make the shot._ He squeezes the trigger and-

-misses entirely.

Bucky is falling all over himself laughing. Steve lines up his shot and tries again. The bullet vanishes into a mire of icy sludge and undergrowth. Steve pushes up to his feet, grumbling.

"C'mon, Buck, stop messing around. There's no way anybody could hit that-"

The top of the fragile stalk abruptly explodes into a powder of fibrous dust that drifts to earth like fluffy snowflakes, as Bucky straightens up and slings the rifle over his back again. He's grinning from ear to ear. Steve glares at him.  
"S'ok, Steve. Can't be good at everything, I guess."

"Oh _fuck you_." Steve grumbles petulantly. Bucky just grins harder, sketching a mock salute. *

"Nice shootin' Cap!" Dugan's booming voice rings out from the trees nearby. Morita wolf-whistles not far beyond him, and yeah… that's definitely Dernier laughing his ass off behind that tree to their right. When he actually looks he can see Fallsworth and Jones struggling mightily not to bust a gut laughing as they lean on each other, shoulders shaking with mirth.

He had an audience…_. Just fantastic… _At least Bucky's an equal-opportunity jerk.  
"Alright you clowns, get down here," he barks, waving them out of the trees. "Show me you're better shots than our fearless leader and I'll buy the booze next time we hit someplace civilized!"

"Sucker bet!" Morita calls back, but they all slowly file down out of the brush and take their turns. Dugan gets the closest, but none of them manages to actually make the shot. Bucky's laughing harder than he has in months. And when Steve thinks about it, honestly... Buck hasn't laughed at all in _weeks-_

The curator's chair squeaks and Steve snaps back to 2012 with a jolt, aware that he's smiling distantly. His expression falls away when he remembers.

Hanson is staring at him, and he looks a little worried. Steve's stomach abruptly bottoms out and the room feels suddenly very claustrophobic.  
"Uh, Captain…?"

"I think that's about enough for today." Steve stands up sharply, feeling inexplicably cold all over.  
"I'll-" he desperately needs some air and a little room to think; to clear his head- "I'll be back later." Steve Rogers pivots on his heel and all but bolts from the room.

He doesn't come back for close to two weeks.

* * *

_*** inspired by bonesbuckleup of tumblr, but I lost the link to the particular meta that inspired this flashback**_


	80. Chapter 80

_**A/N: Sorry about the weird site issue yesterday, folks. If you weren't able to access the new chapters, try again now. I think the problem is fixed. If they won't open for you, let me know and I'll try to repost them. I'm also cross-posting the story to Ao3, so you should be able to catch up there soon. Aaaand off we go.**_

* * *

Once he's given the museum a mountain of anecdotes and information on Bucky Barnes to pick through, the next subject they tackle is Steve himself. Particularly, growing up.

"First of all, while I get why you wanted to go with the 'wholesome all American boy' angle - I do. Just-... wow." Rogers leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "You skipped my _entire_ arrest record." He snorts a small laugh at his own expense. "I get that it'd take up a whole wall. I mean… that thing could've doubled as a set of encyclopedias."  
He'd gotten picked up for a little of everything, back then. Fighting, protesting the 'wrong' causes, shooting off his mouth to the wrong people, trespassing, even 'harboring a criminal' once… That whole thing had been a huge mess and Bucky'd given him hell about it for weeks after.  
The Captain's chin raises just a little defiantly when he continues, feeling suddenly defensive. Steve Rogers may have been something of a delinquent, but he had his reasons. "I didn't raise hell just for fun, y'know. Just... Somebody had to stand up." Mrs. Rogers had always told him that, even as she iced his bruises.  
"My mama raised me to do what was right, and what's right ain't always what's popular. You always gotta stand up for the right thing."

"You…" Hanson's brain stumbles over this information, eyes going wide and his jaw falling open. He's not even listening to Rogers' justifications. This simply does not compute. "_You_ had an _arrest_ record?!"

Steve's eyebrow climbs incredulously.  
"... Of course I did." He stares back at the curator. "Got into a fist-fight at least once a week, and sometimes they pressed charges, even if I didn't get a single lick in. And I got picked up at… Christ, I don't know how many demonstrations. They started calling me 'the sign mick' at the police station after a while. Got to know me real well-"  
Hanson's eyes are the size of saucers and he looks like he'd faint dead away if a stiff breeze caught him right now. Steve blinks. "...What? You act like this is some kind'a crazy news-"  
He stops mid-sentence and whistles lowly through his teeth when realization sets in. "They scrubbed it all out when the serum worked…" he mutters distractedly, "They scrubbed my entire fucking record clean like I was some kinda goddamned boy scout… I can't decide if I'm flattered or offended."

Doug's jaw has got to be scraping the floor. Not _only_ has Rogers got an impressive sounding rap sheet -oh, no- he also _swears like a sailor_ when he gets worked up over something. ...And picks up quite the Brooklyn accent too.  
_Elocution lessons, _Hanson realizes. Of _course_ they'd have trained their golden-boy until he could talk like a politician. He makes a frantic mental note to come back to this later, when his stomach has stopped trying to dig its way to China by dropping through his shoes.

"I'm… I'm not sure we want to put an unverifiable criminal record into your exhibit, Captain…" the curator murmurs faintly, trying very hard to make his voice stop squeaking like that.

Rogers eyes him appraisingly. Finally he nods.  
"I guess…" he shrugs. "Can you at least cut it out with the 'well-behaved goody-goody' thing everybody's pushing about me, though? It's a little creepy… I mean, I _was_ a rowdy little bastard as a kid, and I'll own that. I sure as hell wasn't any good at just sittin' around doin' whatever I was told.  
Bucky could-" he hangs up on the name for half a second, but pushes past the leaden weight it dredges up in his chest and continues as if he doesn't feel a thing, "Buck could tell you what a pain in the ass I was."  
A deep grounding breath and then he shifts gears.  
"While we're on the subject, I didn't say half the garbage people seem to think I did. ...How about we just fix that for now and call it good?"

"Right ...that sounds great…" Doug makes himself remember how to breathe, opening a fresh document on the screen in front of him. "So, uh... what statements are wrongly attributed to you? Let's start there."

"Aw loads of stuff." Steve sighs. "For starters, I don't hate Jews. Some'a the kids we played with when I was able to go out were jews. Nice guys, but they had big mouths - like us. I thought we'd get killed a couple times getting into it with the bigger kids. We got in _so much_ trouble together. ...Isaac and Aaron Himmelfeld, I think their names were. Moved away when I was eight. Kinda lost touch… Oh, and we had _at least_ a couple'a jewish neighbors in our building. Mrs. Goldstein was this old widow-woman, lived down the hall from us. She was just the sweetest lady. Used to make soup for me when I was sick… which was often. A lot of people did, actually, but hers was some of the best."

Steve had been about ready to set someone on fire when he'd stumbled across an article (a long, ranty, poorly written article at that) about how much 'Captain America would hate the diversity of this country'. How he'd have sent all these 'unwelcome foreigners' packing if he were alive today. It hadn't had anything much better to say about 'the gays' ...or Mexicans, for some reason… he still hasn't quite figured out what folks problem with Mexico is. The amount of similarly ignorant drivel was part of what had spurred him to come here in the first place. He'd needed to set the record straight.  
"And while we're on the subject," he continues, "I got nothing against colored people, women, queers, or other countries. Not a damned thing. They aren't hurtin' anybody. What I don't like is bullies."

Hanson makes another mental note that he needs to inform Rogers just how offensive some of those old-fashioned terms have become, but he's got a bigger point he wants to address first.  
"But you _did_ famously hate the Germans, Captain-"

Two massive hands suddenly slam down on the desk between them, leaving twin dents in its acrylic surface. Rogers' eyes are blazing fire.  
"_Dr. Erskine_ was German." the Captain snarls, teeth all but bared. "That man was _kind_ and _brilliant_, and he was fucking _murdered_ for trying to make the world a better place!"  
Steve is on his feet and halfway leaned across the desk before he realizes that Hanson has backed up several feet and looks petrified… like he's ready to run for his life. Steve sits numbly back down and tries not to loom.  
"... Sorry. Sorry. That was out of… I just…" he heaves a tired sigh and tries again. "_No_, I don't hate Germans." He cards a hand wearily through his hair. "Yeah, I hate Nazis. I hate HYDRA. I hate people who hurt other people for fun, or for money, or just because. I hate bullies." He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds until the fire in his belly has died down a little. He doesn't want to be the person that Doug Hanson is looking at him like right now. "I don't hate people unless they give me a reason to." he adds quietly.  
Steve pauses and takes another deep breath. He's having a harder time keeping his cool than he used to, and that's … well, that's saying something.  
"Look, I used to get a lot of shit because I was a little guy. 'Cause I was sick all the time or I didn't wanna keep my mouth shut. I ain't gonna do that to anybody else."  
God, he must look pathetic right now. He certainly feels it.

Hanson just swallows hard, tries to keep his composure, and nods.

They take a break for lunch. Steve doesn't come back for a good three hours.  
He doesn't lose his temper again.


	81. Chapter 81

"Hey Buck… I don't know if you can hear me where you are… Like to think you're still lookin' over my shoulder." Steve sits gingerly on the edge of the alarmingly soft bed they gave him, staring at the floor, and sighs deeply. It's nearly 4 am. He hasn't slept a wink and at this point, he's given up on trying.  
"I set them straight over at that big museum in D.C., Buck. You'd never believe it: they thought _I_ was some well-behaved little church boy." He chuckles weakly at himself. "I know, right? Didn't know much about you, so they didn't know about any of the shit _you_ pulled either, but... I couldn't believe it. Didn't even know I'd ever been arrested. Not _once._ They thought I never got up to anything. -_Me-_.  
Christ, I thought the guy was gonna faint when I told him about that time we nailed Marko Scarlotti's bedroom door shut for being a rotten little bastard to Gina Solkewicjz..." He trails off, not really expecting an answer, but unable to talk into the silence any longer.

The darkness looms just as empty as before. He slumps a little.  
Steve fidgets with the edge of the coverlet for a while, then stands up and paces to the window. New York City at night is brighter than it used to be. Busier. Even the stink of the city is different. He shuts his window.  
As an afterthought, he draws the curtain and slides down to sit against the wall beneath the sill, letting his head thump back with a groan.

"I'm not sure what to do without you, Bucky." Steve confesses quietly to the inky shadows. "Jesus, it's been… it's been about 70 years since you-" he still can't say it, "-since I saw you last. It don't feel like that long." A sob shimmies it's way up out of his gut, but he swallows it down viciously before it can escape into the air. To him, Bucky's only been gone for a couple of weeks. A month at the outside. It hurts like it was yesterday.  
"I'm doin' my best." he whispers desperately, trying to fill up the quiet that's slowly stifling him. "I know that's what you'd expect me to do. To keep fightin'... After everything you did to save my ass out there, I can't just give up, but… Jesus, I'm sorry, Buck, I want to. I wanted to then, I want to now. I miss you. I miss _everybody_. I wanna be done, Buck. I just wanna be done, but I can't."  
The sob fights its way back up and out with a loud wail. He feels tears shoving past his lids, so he simply lets them fall, snuffling into his elbow as his shoulders wrack with sudden grief. "I ain't ever gonna be done, am I?"  
He shivers hard, wrapping both arms around himself and lets his head hang, tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he chokes on the guilt, misery, and grief that's festering inside him.

It's a long while, sun high in the sky, before he finally crawls to his feet and drags himself into the kitchen to start some coffee. The heavy weariness that settles over him as he waits for it to brew has nothing to do with the sleep he didn't get. He's simply too tired to struggle anymore.


	82. Chapter 82

_**1945 - Location Unknown**_

"Nice try. I ain't that gullible." Bucky manages after a few seconds, lip curling with disgust. "You think I'd be dumb enough to take your word for _anything_?"

The chilly smile doesn't flicker. This bastard is really enjoying himself. "Of course not, Sergeant. I hear you are a clever man, and clever men are always expecting the trick, the sleight of hand. No, you and I are not so easily swayed by words alone." The man tugs a newspaper out of his labcoat and tosses it onto the wooden bunk beside Bucky's leg. "See for yourself."

It's a copy of the Washington Times, though how they got ahold of it out here, he's got no idea.  
_**Captain America Lost In Action! Country Mourns Fallen Hero!**_ the headline reads.  
A big photo of Steve in his Captain America get-up sit squarely underneath, followed by a lot of political fluff about how this person and that person mourns this terrible loss, etc. He skims across it, heart in his throat,looking for crucial details that will either debunk or confirm the story. There isn't much besides some general wailing and gnashing of teeth. The story's too vague and too puffed up to tell him much. A tiny flood of relief washes over him. He almost fell for it, too.  
Bucky defiantly raises his chin and crumples the paper in his hand.  
"Bullshit." he spits, and throws the paper on the ground. "Gonna have to make a better fake than that, asshole."

The man across from him just smiles and says something to the guards, not even glancing down at the battered newspaper at his feet. There are instantly two uniformed men hauling Bucky to his feet and out the door. His hisses sharply when they manhandle his still-tender shoulder, but neither of them seem to notice, and they certainly wouldn't care even if they did.

"I assure you, Sergeant, I could produce a much better false newspaper than that, should I desire to." The unsettling man is strolling along behind them, unhurried as ever. "But why should I bother, when the real thing is available to me? I'm sure you will feel more cooperative after a treatment."

They drag him down a hallway and through a reinforced door, into a room with what looks like an electric chair settled in the center of it. It's the first time of many that he will see that chair.

They press him down to the seat and wrap thick leather restraints across his arm and chest, pin his legs down with similar straps. So they're going to torture him again? Nothing new there.  
He's waiting for someone to start hitting him -bracing for the crack of a fist across his jaw- so it takes him completely by surprise when someone pulls a switch instead and electricity arcs through his body like a club to the brain.

He screams without meaning to.


	83. Chapter 83

_**A/N: Alright kids, here's hoping this upload actually works correctly :D **_

_**Someone asked if we'll get some lighter chapters soon. The answer is: Not for a while. Steve and Bucky are both basically walking wounded at the moment, and they've got some heavy stuff to address. I'll try to keep it from getting too heavy though :) (Probably want to keep those puppies around for hugging...)**_

* * *

_**2012 - Brooklyn, NY**_

The Smithsonian exhibit is undergoing a _very_ _thorough_ renovation when Colonel Fury, the leader of the new SSR, (S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently - he's almost flattered,) finds him.  
Steve is still seething with the undirected misery - that deep, smoldering anger that he just can't root out of himself. He's doing what he always does at awful hours of the morning when he can't get any rest - bludgeoning a series of punching bags to death, as if each one were personally responsible for all the horrible memories that just won't. get. out of. his. fucking. _head. _The latest unfortunate bag flies across the room after one brutal punch too many, split open and trailing sand like blood. The pent up rage that boils low in Steve's chest hasn't abated, though.  
It never does.

Directory Fury has a job for him.  
Steve respects Fury. He does. He would just really like him and everyone else to fuck the hell off right about now, so Steve can wallow in his misery in peace. It doesn't seem like such an unreasonable thing to ask.

He doesn't speak his thoughts, but the colonel seems to know exactly what he's thinking anyway. It doesn't really matter if Steve wants to go. They need him in the field, and no matter how it's phrased, this is _not_ a request. He understands how orders work quite well enough by now.  
Besides, no matter how much he'd like to politely tell S.H.I.E.L.D. to go get fucked, this isn't something he can really turn his back on. Even if he _could,_ he's just too damned wrung out right now to out-stubborn someone as persistent as Fury has proven to be.

Steve's going to save the world. Again.  
He's going to have to, because _somebody_ pulled the fucking Tesseract out of the ocean, where it should've been left to rot, and thought that'd be a good idea. And then, predictably, someone _else_ stole it.  
Because _obviously_ that stupid damned glow-box hasn't ruined enough lives yet, let's unleash it on a few more. What a fan-fucking-tastic idea.

Steve might be just the tiniest bit bitter, that the thing that indirectly murdered his best friend and destroyed everything it ever came in contact with, - the thing he fucking _died_ (or at least _tried_ to) to keep out of the wrong hands- …that thing is now trying to destroy _the_ _future_ too.

Because of course it fucking is.  
It's not like his life is worth anything. Why did he think laying it down would solve the problem?


	84. Chapter 84

_**1945 - Location Unknown**_

Bucky's mind is soup by the time they unstrap his listless body and drag him away from the chair again. He can't stand up anymore, so they simply drop him on his bunk, lock the door, and walk away. He lays there a long time, trying to find something, _any_thing to cling to and steady himself.  
His name is… ...is…..  
He doesn't know.

All he can remember is blue eyes and blonde hair, and the idea that he has to protect someone at all costs. Like a bubble through thick muck, a name slowly surfaces.  
"...Steve." he murmurs through dry, cracked lips.

In bits and drips, the rest follows. He gets his name back. He remembers where he is, and he thinks he can remember why. Not much more than that.

At some point, he falls into a restless sleep. The man in the labcoat is back when he wakes up.

* * *

"_Christ…_ don't you… don't you people ever knock?" Bucky manages, wearily levering himself up to sit. His head is still spinning, but he knows that he hates this guy, and that's enough to go on for now.

"Oh, but you looked so comfortable." The smile seems sharp edged and vicious, though he couldn't say why. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"Like hell." Bucky snorts, feeling a little more comfortable with this. Sassing assholes is an ingrained habit. Familiar all the way down to his bones. He's on steadier ground with this. "You live to fuck with me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sergeant." -and, oh...right… _Sergeant. _He is a sergeant, isn't he? He'd forgotten that detail, but it comes slowly back through the fog now that he thinks harder about it. "I simply enjoy our little chats. Don't you?"

"Go to hell."

"Ah, but then how would I be able to bring you this little taste of home?" Another newspaper drops with a rustle of pages, into Barnes' lap. "One must keep up on current events."

This time it's the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. This time there are details. Bucky's heart sinks with every line he reads.

_**Local Son, Steve Rogers (Captain America) Lost Overseas. Nation Mourns.**_

_Captain Rogers, a Brooklyn, NY native, was killed in action this past week, while serving his country. A memorial service will be held on Sunday, December 14th, 5:30 pm, at Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church. Mourners are asked to allow family and friends to take their places before finding a seat._

The article goes on with details and a biography of Steve's life. Bucky ticks off everything he can remember for certain. Only child, check. Both parents dead, check. They got his birthday right….

Apparently Steve hijacked an enemy plane in the middle of a huge raid, something named the Valkyrie (Red Skull sure liked to be dramatic), and crashed it someplace in the arctic so it wouldn't make land with a crazy payload of bombs. ...He went down with the ship. Bucky swallows hard.  
…That sure _sounds_ like the kind of stupid shit Steve would do.

Bucky's hand shakes when he gets to the part he's really been dreading. The proof.  
The paper talked to his ma. It looks genuine. There's no way they could get this kind of information to fake it. There's even a picture of her and Cathy, holding one of those stupid Bucky-Bear toys from the comic-books.

_Mrs. Barnes graciously invited us into her home to talk about both the late Captain Rogers, and her son James Barnes, who was killed in action only a few weeks prior while serving with the Captain. _

"_The boys were inseparable from the time they were just little scamps," she tells us, taking a small framed photograph from her china cabinet and passing it around. Two small boys, one gap-toothed and tall, with a mop of dark curls, the other smaller and fair, stand on Coney Island beach with arms linked, grinning for the camera. "You almost never saw one of them without the other. Steven all but lived at our house half the time, and my Bucky - that was James' nickname, you see- my Bucky lived at the Rogers' house the other half." _

_Did you have any idea then, we ask her, what would become of these young men?_

"_Oh no, certainly not." Mrs. Barnes says, hands folded in her lap. "I was always afraid Steven would pass young like his parents did, but I thought surely it'd be pneumonia or scarlet fever that did it. He was a sweet, earnest little thing, but he courted trouble all the time, and he was always catching something awful. There was a priest at the Roger's place every winter, at least once. I don't know how many times that poor boy got the last rites, but he always pulled through somehow. I could hardly believe it when they told me that big fella with the shield was little Steve. He always did have big ideas..."_

"_My Bucky, though…" And she pauses here, eyes filling with tears, "I always thought he'd come back to us. I thought I'd cry at his wedding, not his funeral."  
__A young girl of 4 suddenly comes to her mother from the next room and climbs into her lap. Catherine Barnes is introduced. "Bucky was so important to all of us." Mrs. Barnes continues with visible effort, holding her daughter and stroking her hair. The little girl doesn't appear to understand that her brother is not coming home, only that her mother is upset. She offers up the teddy-bear in her arms, which turns out to be fashioned after Bucky Barnes' Howling Commando's uniform.  
_"_You have to understand," Mrs. Barnes tells us, accepting the bear with a sad smile, "My James was a caretaker. He looked after everyone. When his father passed, James had to take on three jobs, but he never complained. He was my angel."  
__Little Catherine decides to add her input as well. "My brother is the best brother in the world." she says matter-of-factly. "I sent him a dolly, but he didn't say if he likes it yet. Mama said he would, though."_

_Do you miss your brother? we ask her. Catherine looks scandalized.  
_"_I miss _both _of my brothers." she says, tucking her face shyly into her mother's dress. "Mama says Bucky is with Steve, but she won't say where."_

The article goes on, but Bucky can't read anymore. His whole body is shaking and his fingers are threatening to stab through the page, he's gripping it so tight.

"I can see you have much to think about." the man across from him says lightly, standing up and collecting his little stool. "I'll leave you to it."

Bucky barely hears the door locking or the goose-step of the guards marching to the end of the hallway, where they will remain for the next several days. He's left alone in the half-light without so much as a sound to distract him.

Unbidden, a sharp ugly sob rips out of his chest and the page smashes between clenching fingers.

He failed out there. Steve is dead.


	85. Chapter 85

_**2012 - Location Unknown (S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft)**_

The flight crew hand over a roughly 18x24 screen that's 90% thin glass, as Steve takes his seat. It flickers to life as soon as he starts to ask what exactly the hell he's holding, displaying a crisp Starktech logo in stunning color across the glass. A polite voice with a posh British accent greets him a moment later, apparently out of thin air, though he quickly realizes it's coming from the thing in his hands.

_**Welcome Captain Rogers. Voice recognition accepted. Please press the indicated space to continue.**_

A large silver button, cleverly shaded to look dimensional, materializes in the center of the screen and glows blue for a moment. It pulses with light until he gingerly taps it with a fingertip. The screen clears. A neat array of thumbnail photographs with underlined text beneath each one arrange themselves across the screen, beneath a drawing of a file folder with papers spilling out of it, that is labeled '_Mission Brief_'.  
There is a man with a cocky smirk and terrible facial hair, a red-haired woman with unfathomable eyes, and a small dark-haired man with thick glasses perched on his nose.

**These individuals will assist in your mission, Captain. In order to view a file, please touch the appropriate photograph.**

After a brief discussion with … er… the screen? Steve figures out that this thing is loaded with fairly extensive profiles on his three soon-to-be teammates, and he has about four hours to study up on the contents before he and his escort land… wherever it is exactly that they're going. No one has been very clear on that front. Still, Steve doubts he'll need more than two hours, tops, once he gets the hang of the screen thing.

The interface ends up actually being pretty simple and straightforward, once he understands the general idea.

Just touch and drag to move things around. Tap an item to expand it. Tap a film clip to start it playing. Tap again to stop it. It's actually kind of fun, just exploring the thing.  
_Bucky would_\- ...he trips headlong over the thought, his good mood crashing with him. The small smile that had flickered across his face vanishes.  
...No good can come of going down that road. He needs to focus.

Steve gets back down to business with frown furrowing his brow, and opens the first set of files with a decisive tap. He won't let himself finish the thought, _Bucky would've loved this thing… _… Even if it's true.


	86. Chapter 86

Steve raises an eyebrow as he skims the mission briefing at the top of the page. Apparently the person who came up with his stage name is still running amok. What on earth possessed these people to pick these _names_? Granted, his own code name is pretty silly, but at least he can say he didn't come up with it. A lot of propaganda was over-the-top during the war. ...He's not so sure these guys can make the same claim, though.  
...Really, how can they expect him to take this seriously when his teammates have names like Iron Man? The Hulk? Black Widow? -As if 'Red Skull' wasn't bad enough…  
He's tempted to ask the disembodied voice for a rundown of what the _actual hell_, but decides against it in the end. The why isn't all that important. It's the _who_ that he's worried about.  
He keeps reading.

Before he's even halfway through the man's profile, Steve finds himself disliking Iron Man. Something about him just really rubs Steve the wrong way. He doesn't have the patience to deal with some spoiled little rich brat's ego right now, and it sounds like the guy is more of a liability than a help. Stark's kid is apparently just as brilliant as Howard was, but the files indicate that he's also loud, rude, a drunk, and an all around self-centered jerk. This is someone who'd happily throw the rest of his team under the bus and go take a victory lap right after. Steve already knows they're going to butt heads, but he makes a mental note to at least try to be an adult about it. (He can practically hear Bucky's voice cracking up in his head, at the thought of _Steve_ being the grown-up in any situation…)

The Black Widow he just finds a little confusing. He can't keep straight which identity is her real one and which ones are fake, no matter how many times he re-reads her biography. There are large gaps that he feels really ought to be explained, that aren't. The most solid bead he can get on her is that she's Russian and she has a long history with S.H.I.E.L.D. The Russians were allies in the war, and while he knows the world has moved on, that's at least _something_ to go on.  
Ms. Romanoff actually reminds him just a little of Peggy... if Peggy had been side-long and surreptitious instead of direct and utterly no-nonsense. Thinking of Peggy triggers another familiar ache. He makes himself move on before he can examine it too closely.

Steve puzzles for a few moments over _The Hulk _before he clicks. What the hell kind of code-name _is_ that? It's an awfully ambitious title for a skinny little fella like Banner. It'd be like Steve calling himself _Mr. Huge_ before the serum. Pretty ridiculous.  
The name honestly kind of reminds him of those terrible horror flicks that the theater used to show sometimes, when it was a real slow day. Did this guy just pick words out of a hat or something?

The name suddenly makes a lot more sense once he starts reading through Dr. Banner's file. Apparently The Hulk isn't Banner. It's the giant green monster that the scientist morphs into when he's angry. Nothing has yet managed to stop The Hulk when it goes on a rampage and the monster appears to be nigh on indestructible… Given that and the ridiculous size of that thing, maybe the name is pretty apt after all…He'd imagine that when something that big and angry decides on a name, not many people are going to argue.

Steve looks up from a video of the big green monster hurling cars across a city block and roaring like a pissed off dinosaur, mulling over what he's just read and seen. Hard to believe there's a human being under there… Harder still to believe that _thing's _existence is at least partly his fault.  
"So this Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum they used on me?"

"A lot of people were. You were the world's first superhero."  
Coulson -the agent in charge of collecting him for this mission- answers immediately; crossing the plane like a loyal puppy. He's been lingering awfully close since they boarded, but this is the first that the two of them have really spoken.

The conversation quickly goes downhill from there.


	87. Chapter 87

Steve tries not to sigh. It's going to be a _really _long flight.

Apparently Captain America has a rabid fan in one Phil Coulson, who -the longer he talks- just gets more and more awkward. Coulson seems to be just this side of tattooing "I love Cap" on his chest and running around in a stars-and-stripes onesie. The man apparently sat and stared while Steve was being thawed… for hours. An agent with Coulson's clearance level, REALLY ought to have had better things to do with his time…

Phil's admiration progresses rapidly as he talks, from mildly flattering, to uncomfortable, to outright creepy.  
Steve's never considered parachuting out of a plane at altitude more seriously in his life… and that's including the time he actually did so under enemy fire.

… Oh and Phil helped redesign the uniform they'll be putting him in. Steve tries to smile at Coulson's obvious enthusiasm over that. … Fantastic. That won't be awkward at _all…_


	88. Chapter 88

**1945 - Location Unknown**

Days blur into nights, into days, and back again; until time means nothing at all. Bucky crouches on the floor beneath his 'bunk', arm coiled tight around his knees, and stares at nothing.

He did everything he could, didn't he? He fucking _died_ to protect Steve… or at least ...he should have.  
And that's it, isn't it? It should've been him. That's what it boils down to. He was supposed to keep Steve safe. He was supposed to die so Steve could live, and instead… His head drops hard against his knee and his shoulders shake.  
_Instead_, he thinks miserably, dragging in a ragged breath and feeling hot tears stinging at his eyes,_instead I'm here and he's-  
_...He can't make himself say it.

_Did_ he do everything possible? The thought is terrible, but it lingers. The doubt. Could he have done more? If he'd tried, could he have convinced Steve to go home? Would he have run for it if Steve was willing to run with him? … He should've found out.  
Better to go AWOL than crash and freeze to death in god-knows-where. Better than falling into enemy hands again.  
What a fucking mess...

"I'm so sorry, Steve…" Bucky whispers, dry throat turning his voice husky and harsh. "I did my best, kid. I really tried. Jesus, Steve, I tried."

The silence that answers is condemning. It doesn't matter if he tried. What matters is that he failed. He'd made a promise to himself, to god, to Steve's ma (who was practically a second mother to him); that he'd keep Steve safe, no matter what. And he botched it…

He can still see her like it was yesterday, abruptly clearer than any of the other contents of his brain: Mrs. Rogers, pale and wasted, in those last few days before the end. She'd been confined to her bed by then, every struggling breath wheezing in her chest, fighting against time not to die before Steve's birthday. To give him that one last thing in this world.  
She hadn't made it.

Bucky had been at the Rogers' place every moment he could get away from work, trying to help out. He'd swept the place clean last night, and hung the neglected washing up to dry so Steve wouldn't have to. The kid had started to look like a ghost himself, the way he was drifting around, staring at nothing. He knew the end was closing in, same as anybody else. He just didn't know what to do with that, so he refused to see it. Steve hovered by his mother's bed most of the time, put on a brave face for her. She wasn't fooled anymore than she ever was, but she pretended right back. For Steve.

Steve had finally left the room to make her some broth for dinner, only after Bucky had promised to stay with her, in case she needed anything. Really, it had been in case she passed, so she wouldn't be alone when it happened. None of them acknowledged it, but they all knew it just the same. It was part of why Steve had to be pried away with a crowbar for the littlest things. He was so afraid she'd be taken before he could say goodbye…

Bucky honestly would've happily kept Steve out of the sick-room completely if he'd had his way; terrified that Steve would catch it too. That he'd be sitting by Steve's bedside next, watching his best friend gasping out his last breaths, just like Mrs. Rogers was doing now.  
Bucky doesn't get his way. He doesn't even try to keep Steve out. They both know he'd never succeed, and there's enough terrible in their lives as it is without the two of them getting into a stupid fight neither of them will ever win.  
Steve won't leave Mrs. Rogers to fade away alone, and Bucky won't leave Steve to face this thing without him. So they compromise. Steve leaves the room occasionally, reluctantly, gets a breath of fresh(er) air, takes a few moments to break down in the relative privacy of the kitchen. Then he's back like nothing happened. Bucky tries to take it in stride and keep his fears to himself. He think he does alright.

"I'll be right back, Ma." Steve was promising. "Bucky'll be here if you want anything. Five minutes, I promise." He'd lingered for a moment or two, hovering by the door until his ma had smiled for him and nodded. Steve finally took his cue and went.

And then it was just her and Bucky, alone in the stuffy, dusk-touched room.  
That had been when she'd taken Bucky's hand in her fragile fingers and she'd made him promise.

"James... you've always been good to Steve and me." Mrs. Rogers had said softly, rasping like her chest was in a vice. A thin, wet cough interrupted, but she fought her way past it. "You can't know how… how much that means, knowing he has you. He'll need you … more than ever… when I'm gone." God, she sounded awful. He pushed away the sharp needle of fear that stabbed into his chest to see how fragile she'd become and looked into her sunken eyes, the same brilliant blue as her son's. There wasn't much he could do to make her more comfortable, so he lied instead.

"Nah, you're not goin' anywhere." Bucky soothed gently, covering her cold, cold hands with his rough, warm ones and trying vainly to give her a little heat back. Nothing seemed to keep the chill out her bones anymore, despite the muggy June weather and every blanket in the house. Death wasn't far behind Sarah Rogers. "Tough gal like you?" He offered her a watery smile. "You got ages left."

"You'll… you'll look after him ...won't you?" Mrs. Rogers had wheezed, not bothering to waste air on contradicting him. Her lungs sounded heavy and wet. Her lips had gone just the faintest bit blue around the edges. "Keep my boy out of trouble?"

"Course I will." he'd promised her, eyes darting to the door and back. He was a little afraid she'd slip away right here, before Steve came back, and he wasn't sure what that'd do to his best friend... only that it'd be catastrophic. _Hurry __**up**__, Steve..._ "I won't let nothin' happen to him, you know that." And really, it wasn't like she even had to ask.

She'd smiled at him, apparently relieved to hear him confirm it, and sunk back into her thin pillow, weary and weak. A stiff breeze might've blown her to pieces. She gave his fingers a frail squeeze.  
"You're a good boy, James Barnes." she'd whispered, as Steve's footsteps sounded in the hall outside, back as quickly as he'd said. "And a blessing."

Bucky had had to leave a few hours after that, and it'd been the last time he spoke to Mrs. Rogers. He'd been given triple shifts by the foreman when one of the other guys got sick, and barely had time to sleep between them. Mrs. Rogers passed away in her sleep two days later, while he was still at work. He wasn't able to get back in time.  
Steve had sat with her throughout. He'd still been sitting there, holding her cold, stiff hand, as rigid as a rail, when Bucky got there.  
Steve hadn't said a word to him, just looked up at his friend with red-rimmed eyes like the world had just ended. There was no blame. No anger. Just so much pain. Steve had never looked so lost in his life. Bucky'd set a hand heavily on his friend's shoulder and tried to lend silent support as best he could. It hadn't been enough, but it was all he had to give.

Bucky'd been helpless to protect Steve from the world then, and he's failed to protect him now.

Bucky digs his fingers into his eyes, hard, and rubs, trying to scrub away the pain that's building there.  
He lied to Steve's ma is what it amounts to. He _promised._ And now look where he's gotten them.


	89. Chapter 89

No one comes in or out of Barnes' cell for over a week. He has a bucket of scummy water in the corner that they gave him when he first got dropped here, but nothing else. They leave him to stew in his own guilt until he's ready to scream, just for something else to focus on. He starts counting the cracks in the wall, feeling like he's hanging by a thread. And that thread is dangerously close to snapping...  
He sleeps as little as possible, nightmares jolting him awake, until finally something in him just… _breaks_. He can't do this anymore. Can't function. Can't stand himself anymore.

In a fog, he slowly curls up in a ball on the cold, rough ground, as small as he can make himself, and stays there, eyes vacant in the semi-darkness. He lies there, just breathing, unnoticed tears cutting trails through the smudges of dirt now and again. He doesn't move.  
When Bucky's been lying on the floor, unmoving, for days, listlessly staring at the wall beneath his bunk and muttering to himself under his breath, the guards finally return for him.

He drags limp between them as they haul him back to the chair, unable to muster the energy to fight them.  
What's the point?  
They'll get what they want no matter what he does. Rescue isn't coming. It's over.  
Steve is dead. He's never going home - was _never going _to go home. Struggling won't change that.

_I'm sorry Ma. I'm sorry Becca. Rae. Cathy. I love you guys. I ain't commin' back. … I'm so sorry._

Bucky doesn't even hear himself scream as the electricity snaps through him like a whip, erasing him as it goes.


	90. Chapter 90

When the machine is finished and they finally unstrap him from the chair, Barnes falls out of it. He's been wiped clean inside. They let the thing run much longer than the last time, apparently just to see what it would do. Let it go until he finally blacked out, reflexive screams fading as his eyes rolled up in his head and his body slumped. They ran it until he stopped breathing and he had to be resuscitated before he went into cardiac arrest.

The chair hollowed him out and spat out the empty shell. His keepers are pleased.

When they bring him back around, he's disoriented and sick. He throws up at least once, and they let him without comment. All he has is pain and a chaotic mess of nothing swirling around his head. Someone asks him his name. He just stares blankly back. They smile and he watches the action, unsure why they seem so pleased with his lack of answer.  
..Does he _have_ a name? Nothing comes to mind. Where the hell is he? Who are these people?  
…Who is _he_?

No blue eyes come back to light the way home. No name springs to his lips. He misses something, but he couldn't tell you what it was if he tried. It doesn't seem to matter, so he lets it go, blown away by the relentless wind that scours his thoughts clean, like new-fallen snow. It's kind of ...peaceful, in an ugly sort of way. He's nothing and nobody.

They leave him in his cell again when he finally stops dry-heaving and someone declares him stable enough. He lies on his plank of wood all night, staring straight ahead, up at the ceiling.  
He doesn't sleep.


	91. Chapter 91

The first arm is installed later that week. It's a clumsy thing with a pincer at the end, laced with hydraulic tubes, and it weighs a ton. They have him pick things up, raise and lower the arm. He tries to obey until the weight proves to be too much for his body and muscle tears. He yelps, dropping to his knees with the pain, his remaining hand clutching the injured flesh reflexively. Someone strikes him hard across the face and shouts at him. He reels.

"Did I tell you to make noise?" they demand.

"N-no…?" he says, stunned and confused.

"Did I _tell_ you to move?" his handler continues, not angry, just… harsh. He's being disciplined, he realizes.

"No… sir."

"Then don't fucking move, and don't make noise." the person snaps.

They take the arm off and operate to repair the damaged muscle. It hurts like hell but he keeps his silence as best he can. They told him to be quiet.


	92. Chapter 92

_**A quick message from the author:**_

_Sorry to leave you all hanging, I swear I'm still alive, I'm just CRAZY busy these days. I got a full-time job, I'm taking classes, and I have a burdgeoning relationship with someone I really like, so I haven't had any time at all to really sit down and write lately. I haven't forgotten about this story or any of my other story ideas, I just don't have any flipping time at the moment, I'm afraid. I will still try my best to get back to this and finish it up, but probably not for quite a while. Thanks for reading this far, and please feel free to subscribe to the story so you'll know when I do manage to get it going again._

_Your patience is appreciated, while the author earns a living! :D_


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